LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


*  *  * 

This  is  an  authorized  facsimile  of  the  original  book,  and  was 
produced  in  1967  by  microfilm-xerography  by  University 
Microfilms,  A  Xerox  Company,  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  U.S.A. 

*   *   * 


HOMES 


OF 


AMERICAN  AUTHORS; 


OOlfPBIAINQ 


SUtrtotital,  personal,  uui)  Jtetriptibc 


BV 


VARIOUS   WIUTEU8 


- 


vj» 


ILLUSTllATEtt  WITH  VIEW t)  OF  T1IKIB  11KSIDKNOK8  FUOM  OltlGlSAL  PliAWlNGd,    - 
AND  A  FAO-ttlMILK  OF  TUB   MAM'bGlCUT  OF  KAOU   AUTHOU. 

.    -      • 


f     - 


NEW-YORK: 
G.  P.  PUTNAM    AND  CO.,  10   PAHK    PLACE. 

LONDON :  SAMPSON  LOW,  SON  *.<«. 
M.UCCC.LI1I. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


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((   O  tVf    !<! 


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ENTKRID  according  to  Act  of  Congrm,  In  the  year  1S52,  by 

0.  P.  PUTNAM  A  COMPANY, 
ID  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Soulhoru  District  of  New-York. 


,1011 N  F.  TUOW, 
PBINTCK  AMI 


PREFACE. 


absence  of  a  good  many  names  from  this 
volume,  which  will  be  very  naturally  looked  for 
in  any  collection  of  American  Authors,  making  the 
slightest  pretensions  to  completeness,  will,  of  eoursc, 
be  ii  subject  of  remark,  and  demands  an  explana 
tion. 

On  making  up  a  list  of  the  authors  in  whom 
the  public  were  imagined  to  feel  a  sufficient  degree 
of  interest  to  entitle  them  to  a  place  in  a  work  like 
this,  they  were  found  to  be  too  numerous  to  be  all 
included  in  one  volume.  Moreover,  as  it  required  a 
considerable  length  of  time  to  procure  drawings  of 
their  homes,  it  would  have  caused  the  publication  to 
be  delayed  nearly  a  year,  if  an  attempt  had  been 
made  to  put  them  all  between  the  same  pair  of 
covers.  It  was  determined,  therefore,  to  divide  our 


iv  I*  K  K  F  A  0  K , 

Valhalla  into  two  compartments,  and  to  avoid  the 
appearance  of  partiality,  and  give  equal  value  to 
both,  some  of  the  greater  names  have  been  reserv 
ed  for  our  second  volume,  which  it  is  intended  i  to 
publish  the  succeeding  year. 

Although  there  are  no  Abbotstl  vds,  which  ha\:e 
been  roared  from  the  earnings  of  the  pen,  among  ottr, 
authors*  homes,  yet  we  feel  a  degree  of  pride  iu  show 
ing  our  countrymen  ho\v  comfortably  housed  many  of 
their  favorite  authors  are,   in  spite  of  the   imputed  .. 
neglect  with   which  native    talent    has  been  treated.  - 
Authorship  in  America,  notwithstanding  the  want  of 
an  international  copy-right  which  lias  l)een  so  sorely   , 
felt   by  literary  laborers,  has  at   last  become  a   pro* 
fesion  which  men  may  live  by. 

All  the  views  in  this  volume  have  been  engrave*! 
from  original  drawings  made  expressly  for  the  wor,kt 
with  the  exception  of  Otsego  Hall,  the  residence  of 
Cooper,  and  ]\lr.  Webster's  residence  at  MarshfieBl, 
which  are  from  daguerreotypes,  and  not  less  authentic 
than  the  others. 


CONTENTS. 


/ 
JOHN  JAMES  AUDI1  BON,...'. 1 

JAMES  K.  PAULDING, ; 21 

-*  WASHINGTON  IRVING, .... 85 

^   WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT, 6.1 

*    (ilX)liGE  BANCROFT,.: . 85 

IZirilARl)  HENRY  DANA, 103 

^    WILLIAM  II.  PRESCOTT, 1.23 

MISS  C.  M.  8KDGW1CK 15'J 

J.  FKNIMOUK  COOPER, 17» 

•  EDWARD  EVKRKriT 217 

1     RALPH  WALDO  EMEHSON^/ J233 

~~  WILLIAM  GlLMnRi:  SIMMS ' 257 

^  11F.NRY  W.  LONGFELLOW, 26A 


VI  CONTRIBUTORS. 

"'NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 891 

DANIEL  WEBSTER, 817 

N  PENDLETON  KENNEDY,..., U41 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL, ,.  847 


CONTRIBUTORS. 


iiEO.  WM.  CURTIS  ("TUB  HUWAWI").  WILLIAM  C.  BRYANT. 

HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN.  G.  W.  I'ECK. 

X 

(JEORGE  WASHINGTON  GREENE.  RUFL'S  W.  GUIS  WOLD. 

CHARLES  F.  BRIGGS.  1'AIJKE  GODWIN. 

GEORGE  8.  H1LLARD.  EDWARD  E.  HALE. 
MRS.  0.  M.  K1RKLAND. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Itrtl. 


*EVERETTS  LIBRABY  

J.  ItOtiEJtfl*         FfOftt 

•  PORTRAIT  OF  WASHINGTON  IBVINO. 

C.  MARTIN.       . 

F.  HAU-IH.  .       . 

A|<M«. 

35 

viUYINQ'3  RESIDENCE,  SUNNY-SIDE.    . 

W.  R.MILLM,    . 

II.  JUKUAX. 

.    60 

'BRYANT'S  RESIDENCE,  ROSLYN.       . 

W.  K.MILLEE,    . 

J.  B.FuEEMT.       . 

69 

ROUNDHILL.  NORTHAMPTON.        .       . 

DAUVREXKOTXrC. 

J.  A.  ROU-H.     . 

.    96 

^RESIDENCE  OF  R.  H.  DANA,       .       .       . 

IL  BILUKOB.       . 

L.  Y.  Hew.  .       . 

10S 

-PRESCOTT3  RESIDENCE,  PEPPERELL. 

ORIGINAL  SKETCH. 

L.  KIRK.  . 

.150 

RESIDENCE  OF  MISS  C.  M.  8EDGW1CK.   . 

»  U.I-.IM  ;.  SKETCH. 

L  KIRK;      .       . 

1» 

"PORTRAIT  OF  J.  FEN1MORE  COOPER.  . 

DAGUERREOTYPE. 

H.  B.  HALL.     . 

.  1T9 

SOTSEGO  HALL,  COOPEUSTOWN. 

DAGCKHKF.UTJPE. 

11.  B.  HALL. 

803 

'PORTRAIT  OF  EDWARD  EVERETT.      . 

B.  M,  STAOO.       . 

J.  CllKNET. 

.*» 

-EMERSON'S  HOUSE  AT  CONCORD.     . 

MIIJ.EE.     .       . 

J.  a  F»R1MT.      . 

244 

.SIMMS'  HOUSE  AT  WOODLANDS.    . 

RICHARD*.     . 

L.V.  II  CUT.       . 

.  251 

vCRAGlE  HOUSE,  CAMBRIDGE.     .       .       . 

H.  Itll.J  INiib.     . 

L.  V.  HU.VT.  .       . 

2Si- 

-PORTRAIT  OF  N.  HAWTHORNE.     .       . 

C.  G.  TUOMWOM. 

T.  PlilLLlliRGWX.* 

.8T>4 

^HAWTHORNE'S  HOUSE  AT  CONCORD.     . 

W.  K,  MILLIE.     . 

J.  Dl-TUIE.     . 

8*)6 

-WEBSTER'S  HOUSE,  MARSHFIELD.       . 

DAGCEEUEUTVFE, 

H.  B.  HALL.     . 

.  836 

KENNEDY'S  RESIDENCE. 

D  II  STEOTIIEK. 

W.  L.  OEIUBT. 

841 

LOWELL'S  HOUSE,  CAMBRIDGE.    .       . 

H.  BILLING*. 

W.  L.  OEVUJII. 

.  849 

AUDUBON'S  RESIDENCE     .       .       . 
PAULDING'S  RESIDENCE.       .       . 
IRVING  b  RESIDENCE,  OESOALVaw. 


ffltaA, 

.    W.  K.  MILLIE,    fitCBABOAOx,  *  Cox.  . 


Viii  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW W.  K.  MXUJUU  RICUAKUSOM,  *  Cox.     .     49 

RUSTIC  GATE,  AT  BUNNYSIDE.       .       .  -  61 

BRYANTS  HOUSE,  KOSLYN,  ...  "                             M  « 

PRE.SCOTTS  HOUSE  AT  NA1IANT.   .       .  «  K'3 

-                  «           -     BOSTON..       ,  *  128 

COOPER'S  HOUSE,  WESTCHESTER  co.  .  BICBABDC     •  '.'•*  w 

BIRTH-PLACE  OF  EVERETT.  ...  «•  21T 

AL(X»TTS  8UMMEK  HOUSE.     ...  *  233 

BIUTIM'LACK  OF  PllOF.  LONGFELLOW.  a  265 

THE  "OLD  MANSE,"  CONCOUD.        .       .  u  .201 

nillTII-PLACE  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER.  C.  LANMUI.                      «•  817 

ARMS  OF  THE  LOWELL  FAMILY.  *         *           «  866 


/w-limilw  nf  ^I 


AUDUBON  

JUUKNAL  IN  CANADA.        .       .       .       . 

16 

IRVING  

60 

1JRYANT.         .       ...       .       .       . 

TUB  "PAby.11       .                     •      .       . 

SO 

HisioBY  or  UNITED  STATM.    VoL  Y.  . 

100 

DANA.      .       .       .       .  >  .       .       .       , 

120 

PKESCOTT.          

ito 

8KDGW1CK.            ...... 

Ni  u  -I'.si.i  AMJ  TALK.         .... 

176 

COOIMCR.       

AURECMKNT  FOB  -8pT.n             ... 

214 

EVERETT.      ..       .,      

ORATION  AT  NIBLO**.         .... 

230 

EMERSON  

254 

MMMS  , 

Tut:  SWOED  AND  DISTAFF.  .       .       , 

202 

2S(i 

HAWTHORNE. BOABLBT  LETTKB.         .       .  ,       .       .  Jli 

WKHSTER. OKATJO.S  AT  TUB  CAPIYOI*  ...  88* 

KENNEDY,     .        .       ...       .       .    HOBBB-SIIOB  ROBINBOH.       .  .       ,        .  84«i 

LOWELL.                                                       FABUE  ron  Cumos.  866 


|obn  $;mus  Juiubon. 


- 


^f •;•   .•  •  ,          '     •<  «    /'  ,j    ,  II     ••   — 


, 


ill 


AUDUBON. 


ONE  Sunday,  as  bright  aud  brilliant  a  day  as  ever  glad 
dened  the.  eyesight,  or  sent  thrilling  pulses  of  health 
through  the-  outworn  body,  I  wandered,  as  it  was  then  my 
habit,  beyond  the  outskirts  of  New- York.  My  road  led  me 
jmst  several  suburban  houses,  pleasantly  rising  amid  tlu-ir 
green  groves,  and  along  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  A  sacred 
••ilenee  was  brooding  every  where,  as  if  Nature,  sympathizing 
\\itli  the  solemn  oiiiccs  of  the  day,  had  consecrated  au  hour 
to  meditation.  Behind  me  lay  the  town  with  its  masses  of 


4  HOMES   OF   AMERICAN    AUTIIOUS. 

perpetual  unquiet  life;  before  iue  the  sloops  with  their  white 
wings  were  floating  lazily  on  the  surface  of  the  stream;  while 
all  around  were  the  green  fields  and  the  cheering  Hunshiuc. 
Those  squads  of  boisterous  strollers  who  usually  select  that 
day  for  the  invasion  of  the  sylvan  solitudes,  were  not  yet 
abroad,  and  only  the  insects  with  their  small  hum,  or  the  birds 
with  their  sweet  morning  hymns,  seemed  to  be  alive  in  the 
midst  of  the  infinite  repose. 

After  wandering  for  some  hours,  I  turned  into  a  rustic  road 
which  led  directly  down  towards  the  river.  A  nobh;  forest 
was  planted  on  the  one  side  of  it,  and  on  the  other  vast  grain- 
fields  lay  laughing  in  the  sun,  or  listening  to  the  complacent 
murmur  of  a  brook  that  stole  along  in  the  midst  of  clumps  of 
bushes  and  wild  briers.  About  the  half-worn  path  group.-.  <•!' 
cattle  loitered,  some  cropping  the  young  gra*s,  and  others 
looking  contemplatively  towards  the  distant  shine  of  the 
stream,  which  flashed  through  the  vista  of  trees  in  molten 
bands  of  silver.  It  was  such  a  scene  as  Cuyp  or  .Paul  Totter  •• 
would  have  toved  to  paint,  if  the  native  country  of  those  artists 
had  ever  furnished  them  with  so  lovely  and  glorious  a  sub 
ject. 

Uiit  my  walk  soon  brought  a  secluded  country  house  into 
view, — a  house  not  entirely  adapted  to  the  nature  of  the  scen 
ery,  yet  simple  and  unpretending  in  its  architecture,  and 
beautifully  embowered  amid  elms  and  oaks.  Several  grace 
ful  fawns,  and  a  noble  elk,  were  stalking  in  the  shade  of  the 
trees,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  a  few  dogs, 
and  not  curing  for  the  numerous  turkeys,  geese,  and  other  do 
mestic  animals  that  gabbled  and  screamed  around  them. 
Nor  did.  my  own  approach  startle  the  wild  beautiful  crea- 


AUDUBON.  5 

tares  that  seemed  as  docile  as  any  of  their  tamo  compan 
iona. 

"  Is  the  master  at  home?"  I  asked  of  a  pretty  maid-scr 
vuut  who  answered  my  tap  at  the  door,  and  who  after  inform 
ing  me  that  he  was,  led  me  into  a  room  on  the  left  side  of  tin* 
broad  hall.  It  was  not,  however,  a  parlor,  or  an  ordinary 
reception-room  that  I  entered,  but  evidently  a  room  for  work. 
In  one  corner  stood  a  painter's  easel,  with  a  half-finished 
sketch  of  a  beaver  on  the  paper;  in  the  other  lay  the  bkin 
of  an  American  panther.  The  antlers  of  elks  hung  upon 
tho  walls;  stuiled  birds  of  every  description  of  gay  plumage 
ornamented  the  mantle-piece;  and  exquisite  drawings  of 
tietd-mice,  oriolos,  and  wood-peckers,  were  scattered  promis 
cuously  in  other  parts  of  the  room,  across  one  end  of  which 
a  long  rude  table  was  stretched  to  hold  artist  materials, 
straps  of  drawing-paper,  and  immense  folio  volumes,  tilled 
with  delicious  paintings  of  birds  taken  in  their  native 
'ifaunts. 

This,  said  I  to  myself,  is  the  studio  of  the  naturalist,  but 
hardly  had  the  thought  escaped  me,  when  the  master  himself 
made  his  appearance,  lie  was  a  tall,  thin  jnan,  with  a  high 
.arched  and  serene  forehead,  and  a  bright  penetrating  gray  eye  ; 
hi»  white  locks  fell  in  clusters  upon  his  shoulders,  but  were 
the  only  signs  of  age,  for  his  form  was  erect,  and  his  step  as 
light  as  that  of  a  deer.  The  expression  of  his  face  was  sharp, 
but  noble  and  commanding,  and  there  was  something  in  it, 
jHiftly  derived  from  the  aquiline  noso  and  partly  from  the 
•  shutting  of  the  mouth,  which  made  you  think  of  the  imperial 
eagle. 

llis  greeting,  as  he  entered,  was  at  once  frank  and  cordial, 


6  11  O  M  1C  d    OF    AMERICAN    AUTUOK3. 

and  showed  you  tho  sincere  true  man.  "  How  kind  it  is,"  . 
ho  said  with  a  slight  French  accent,  and  in  a  pensive  tone, 
"  to  coinu  to  see  mo  j  and  how  wise,  too,  to  leavo  that  craxy 
city!"  llo  then  shook  me  warmly  by  tho  Imnd.  uJ)o  yon 
know,"  ho  continued,  "  how  I  wonder  that  men  can  consent 
to  swelter  and  tret  their  lives  away  amid  those  hot  bricks  and 
pestilent  vapors,  when  tho  woods  and  fields  are  all  so  near  {  It 
would  kill  mo  BOOH  to  bo  confined  in  such  a  prison-house ;  and 
when  I  am  forced  to  make  an  occasional  visit  there,  it  fills  me 
with  loathing  and  sadness.  Ah  !  how  often  when  I  have  been 
abroad  on  the  mountains  has  my  heart  risen  in  grateful  praise 
to  God  that  it  was  nut  my  destiny  to  waste  and  pine  among 
those  noisome  congregations  of  the  city/' 

This  man  was  Audubon,  the  ornithologist,  whose  extraor 
dinary  adventures  in  the  pursuit  of  a  favorite  science,  whoso 
simple  manly  character,  and  whose  unequalled  accuracy  and 
skill  as  an  artist  in  a  peculiar  walk,  has  made  his  name  known 
to  tho  civilized  world. 

Ho  was  over  sixty  years  of  age  when  the  writer  of  this 
sketch  made  his  acquaintance,  and  he  was  then  us  ardent  in 
tho  prosecution  of  his  studies,  as  bold  in  his  projects  for  ad 
ditional  acquisitions,  and  as  animated  in  his  conversation  and 
manner,  as  ho  could  have  been  forty  yoars  before.  Indeed, 
ho  was  even  at  that  advanced  period  of  his  life  on  the  eve  of 
,  an  excursion  to  the  llocky  Mountains,  in  search  of  some  spe 
cimens  of  wild  animals  of  which  he  had  heard,  and  the  fol 
lowing  year  ho  passed  the  summer  on  tho  upper  Missouri  , 
and  tho  Yellow  Stone  rivers.  His  love  of  his  vocation,  after 
innumerable  trials,  successes  and  disappointments,  gave  the 


AUDUBON.  7 

He  to  the  Quo  Jit  Mac&naa  of  lloruce,  and  was  to  the  end  of 
Iris  lite  most  intense. 

Andnbon  was  born  tlio  same  year  the  Declaration  of  In 
dependence  was  made  (177G),  on  a  plantation  in  Louisiana, 
then  a  French  possession,  where  his  father,  a  retired  and  cul 
tivated  French  naval  olHcer,  had  settled,  and  where,  under 
the  instruction  of  that  excellent  parent,  he  acquired  as  a  mere 
child  his  love  for  natural  objects.  AH  early  as  he  could  re 
member,  he  says,  he  took  an  interest  in  the  animal  creation, 
and  because  he  could  not  be  always  with  the  birds,  he  brought 
the  birds  to  him,  as  well  as  he  could,  by  taking  their  port  raits, 
in  a  rude  uniiistructed  way. 

The  young  naturalist  was  sent 'to  France  to  .perfect  hid 
^kill.  In  Paris,  he  took  lessons  of  Dayid,  but  soon  grew 
weary  of  the  task,  and  longed  to  return  once  more  to  his 
native  woods.  "What  hud  I  to  do,"  he  asked,  "with  mon- 
«trOu8  torsos  and  the  heads  of  heathen  gods,  when  my  busi 
ness  lay  among  the  birds?"  Sure  enough  ;  and,  accordingly, 
the  student  made  his  way  back  to  the  fields.  He  took  pos 
session  of  a  farm  on  the  banks  of  the  Schuylkill,  in  Pennsyl 
vania,  which  had  been  given  to  him  by  his  father,  and  here 
thetaste  thus  early  developed  became  the  master  passion  of 
his  life,  lie  continued  his  researches  and  his  drawings;  but 
h-t  it  here  be  said,  for  the  encouragement  of  youthful  genius, 
that  those  drawings  did  not  then  display  the  excellence  which 
marked  his  subsequent  efforts. 

ft  was  not  long  after  that  he  was  married  to  a  woman  in 
every  way  adapted  to  his  elevated  taste, — one  who  appreci 
ated  his  genius  amj  sympathized  in  his  pursuits ;  and  with 
her,  the  better  to  pursue  his  studies,  he  removed  to  a  residence 


8  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

he  liud  purchased  at  Henderson,  Kentucky.  Ho  gives  a  gra 
phic  account  of  his  first  journey  to  that  new  homo,  which  was 
then  distant  and  desolate.  Steamboats  had  not  yet  vexed  the 
.placid  waters  of  the  Ohio,  to  drive  away  the  Hat-boat  and  the 
cauoe,  and  the  shores  were  still  covered  with  a  luxuriant  vir 
gin  vegetation.  Unbroken  thickets,  enormous  troesj  endless 
reaches  of  forests  rose  on  all  sides,  and  where  populous  cities 
now  bend  up  their  noi.se  and  smoke,  tlio  vultures  screamed 
from  the  hill-tops,  and  savage  animals  camo  down  to  the 
openings  to  drink.  But  all  this  only  made  the  region  more 
inviting  to  the  young  voyager,  ami  ho  penetrated  the  vast 
solitudes  with  a  sprightly  eager 'joy.  It  was  precisely  amid 
the  rich  and  varied  iiiagni licence  of  nature  that  he  hoped  to 
find  those  winged  treasures  for  which  his  soul  yearned*  Crea 
tion  in  her  fullness  and  glory  was  there,  and  lie  only  longed 
to  bathe  in  her  luxuriance. 

Once  settled  in  his  rustic  western  dwelling,  Audubon  made 
wide  and  frequent  excursions, .not  merely  into  all  parts  of  the 
neighboring  country,  but  over  much   of  our  whole  broad 
inland.     Provided  with  a  rough  leathern  dress,  with  a  knap- 
Back  that  contained  his  pencils  and  his  colors,  and  with  a  good 
trusty  gun  at  his  side,  he  wandered  for  days,  and  even  months, 
in  search  of  animals  to  describe  and  paint.    At  one  time,  we 
iind  him  watching  for  Lours  in  the  tangled  cane-breaks  of 
Kentucky,  where  some  shy  songster  is  silently  rearing  her*, 
brood;  at  another,  he  is  seen  scaling  the  almost  inaccess 
able  mountains,  where  the  eagle  hovers  over  its  rocky  nest 
now  ho  is  floating  in  a  frail  bkilf  down  the  rushing  tide  of  the 
Mississippi,  and  is  carried  on  he  knows  not  whither  by  the 
flood ;  then  the  jealous  Indian  prowls  about  his  lonely  path, 


AUPUBON.  9 

OP  lurks  beneath  the  trees  on  which  ho  sleeps,  waiting  for  an 
opportunity  to  put  an  end  to  his  life  and  his  uncomprehended 
labors  toother;  here  he  begs  shelter  and  food  in  some  lonely 
tog-cabin  of  the  frontiers,— and  there  ho  wanders  hopelessly 
tit  rough  the  interminable  pine-barrens  of  Florida,  while  hun 
ger,  and  heat  and  thirst,  and  insects  and  wild  beasts,  beleaguer 
his  steps  like  BO  many  persecuting  spirits.  But  wherever  he 
is,  whatever  lot  betides, — in  ditliculty  and  danger,  as  well  a* 
.in  the  glow  of  discovery  and  success,  the  same  high  genial 
enthusiasm  warms  him,  the  same  unfaltering  purpose  sustain* 
and  fortifies  his  soul.  The  hero  on  the  battle-field  never 
marched  to  victory  more  firmly  than  ho  marched  to  the  con- 
tpiests  of  science  and  art.  What  opulent  experiences,  what 
varieties  and  revulsions  of  Reeling,  what  dread  despairs  and 
exulting  hopes  were  involved  in  that  l«>ng  solitary  career? 
\\re  fancy  that  we  who  live  amid  the  incessant  whirl  of  our 
straining  civilization,  who  are  caught  up  and  borne  onward 
by  i!s  manifold  warring  streams  of  trade,  politics,  amusement, 
and  frivolity,  that  we  know  something  of  life ;  but  that  wan 
dering  naturalist,  I  take  it,  had  excitements  in  his  lonely  life 
to  which  our  strongest  anxieties  would  be  tame.  The  spirit 
in  solitude  is  brought  face  to  face  with  realities  more  awful 
and  stern  than  death,  and  therefore  it  is  that  the  sea,  the  de 
sert,  the  still  endless  wood,  when  wo  are  alone  with  them, 
move  our  profoundest  and  saddest  emotions. 

Jt  was  curious  to  observe  the  influence  which  this  life  had 
.exerted  upon  the  mind  and  character  of  Audubon.  With 
drawing  him  from  the  conventionalities  and  cares  of  a  more 
social  condition,  he  always  retained  the  fresh,  spontaneous, 
clastic  manner  of  a  child,  yet  his  constant  and  deep  con  versa- 


10  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

tion  with  the  thoughtful  mysteries  of  nature,  hud  imparted  to 
him  also  the  reflective  wisdom  of  the  sage.  Whatever  came 
into  his  mind  lie  uttered  with  delightful  unreserve  and  nai 
vete*;  hut  those  utterances  at  the  same  time  bore  marks  of 
keen  original  height,  and  of  the  deepest  knowledge.  Thus, 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  theology  of  the  schools,  and  eared  as 
little  for  it,  because  the  untaught  theology  of  the  woods  had 
filled  his  mind  with  a  nobler  sense  of  Clod  than  the  school 
men  had  ever  dreamed  ;  he  knew,  too,  nothing  of  our  politics, 
and  cared  nothing  for  them,  because  to  his  simple  integrity 
they  Kcctncil  only  frivolous  and  vain  debates  about  rights  that 
none  disputed,  and  duties  that  all  fulfilled:  and  his  reading, 
confined,  I  suspect,  mainly  to  the  necc^ary  literature  of  his 
profession,  was  neither  extensive  nor  choice,  because  ho  found 
in  his  own  activity,  earnestness  and  invention,  a  fountain-head' 
of  literature,  abundantly  able  to  supply  all  his  intellectual 
and  spiritual  wants.  The  heroism  and  poetry  of  his  own  life 
gave  him  no  occasion  to  learn  the  heroism  and  poetry  of 
others;  yet  his  apparent  neglect  of  the  '"humanities"  had 
wrought  no  hardening  or  vulgarizing  'effect  upon  his  nature, 
-for  his  sympathies  wens  always  the  most  delicate,  and  hi* 
manners  soft,  gentle  and  rclincd. 

After  years  of  labor  some  of  his -drawings  were  shown  by 
him  tg  Lawson,  who  engraved  designs  for  the  works  of  Lucieu 
Bonaparte,  Prince  of  Mu.signano,  but  they  wore  rejected  by 
Lawson  as  <piite  impossible  to  be  engraved  I 

Nothing  daunted  by  this  repulse,  Auduhon  at  length 
proceeded  to  England,  lie  relates  with  the  utmost  bini- 
plicity  that  on  going  to  Europe,  he  trod  its  busy  cities  more 
desolate  of  heart  amid  their  throngs  than  he  had  ever  been 


AUDUBON.  11 

in  the  woods,  and  fancied  that  no  one  of  all  the  driving 
multitudes  there  would  know  or  care  about  the  unfriended 
backwoodsman,  who  camo  without  acquaintances  and  with 
out  introduction,  to  solicit  their  hospitality  and  aid.  But 
what  was  his  surprise  and  delight  to  find  that  at  Edinburgh 
he  was  generously  welcomed  by  Jeffrey,  Wilson,  and  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  while  at  Paris,  Cuvier,  St.  Ililaire  and  JTuin- 
boldt  (whom,  by  the  way,  ho  had  once  casually  met  in  Ame 
rica)  were  proud  to  call  him  friend.  The  learned  societies 
hastened  to  greet  him  with  their  iirst  academical  honors, 
and  he  wjvs  introduced  as  a  companion  and  poor  among 
men  eminent  in  all  walks  of  literature  and  art,  whose  name* 
are  illustrious  and  venerable  in  both  hemispheres.  No  pain 
fill  quarantine  of  hope  deterred,  as  too  often  falls  to  the  lot 
of  genius,  was  appointed  to  his  share,  —  no  protracted 
poverty  withered  and  cut  short  his  labors.  The  result 
was  a  work  on  Ornithology,  —  with  splendid  volumes  of 
paintings,  illustrated  in  the  letter-press  with  animated 
descriptions  and  lively  incidents  of  personal  adventure. 
When  it  was  published,  it  at  once  established  his  fame 
abroad,  and  though  ho  knew  it  not,  gave  him  a  high 
reputation  at-  home.  Hut  besides  the  willing  and  instant 
applause  he  received,  it  should  be  said  that  of  the  one  hun 
dred  and  seventy  subscribers  to  his  book,  at  one  thousand 
dollars  each,  nearly  half  came  from  England  and  France. 
This  testimony  to  his  merit  was  as  honorable  to  those  who 
gave  it  as  it  was  to  him  who  received  it,  and  imict  have 
largely  compensated  him  —  not  for  the  expense,  which  we 
will  not  mention  here — but  for  the  trouble  and  pain  of  hi* 
almost  miraculous  exertions. 


12  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

After  a  few  years  ho  returned  to  America  to  enrich  hla 
portfolios  and  journals  with  materials  for  other  volumes  of 
what  ho  characteristically  named  his  "  Ornithological  Biog 
raphy."  No  term  could  have  been  more  happily  chosen 
to  designate  both  his  paintings  and  descriptions,  foi  both  are 
actual  histories  of  their  objects.  A  faithful  portrait  or  tran 
script  of  the  form  and  plumage  of  his  aerial  friends  was  not  all 
that  he  desired  to  accomplish,  as  if  they  had  no  lives  of  their 
own  and  no  relations  to  the  rest  of  nature,  and  sat  fur  ever, 
melancholy  and  alone,  like  the  stock-dove  of  the  poet,  brood 
ing  over  their  own  sweet  notes,  lie  wished  to  portray  them 
in  their  actual  habitudes  and  localities,  such  as  he  had  found 
them  for  years  in  their  homes.  Knowing  how  they  were  rear 
ed  and  mated  and  madc'ii  living,  how  each  one  had  its  indi 
vidualities  of  character  and  custom,  how  its  motions  and 
postures  and  migrations  were  as  much  a  part  of  its  history 
as  its  structure  and  hue,  and  how  the  food  it  fed  upon,  as 
well  as  the  trees  on  which  it  built,  were,  important  elements 
in  the  knowledge-  of  it,  as  a  fact  of  creation,  he  strove  to 
represent  each  in  its  most  characteristic  and  striking  peculi 
arities  and  ways.  And  by  this  means  he  obtained  another 
end,  beyond  strict  fidelity  to  the  truth  of  things,  in  that 
rich  variety  of  accessories,  which  is  essential  to  picturesque 
effect. 

This  was  not,  however,  a  success  that  in  any  degree  intox 
icated  his  mind,  for  no  sooner  had  he  finally  returned  homo, 
crowned  with  fame  and  easy  in  fortune,  than  he  resumed  his 
arduous  tasks.  Jlis  was  not  a  nature  that  could  be  content 
with  reposing  upon  laurels.  On  the  contrary,  an  incessant 
activity  was  the  law  of  life.  If  any  thing  could  have  tempted 


AUDUBON,  13 

him  into  the  indolence  of  a  comfortable  retirement,  it  was 
the  charm  of  his  Imppy  family,  where,  Burroumled  by  his 
accomplished  wife  and  sons,  blessed  with  competence,  and 
enjoying  general  respect,  he  could  have  whiled  away  the 
evening  of  his  days  in  security,  peace  and  oifection«  l>ut 
stronger  than  these  to  him  were  the  seductions  of  the  field-, 
and  that  nameless  restless  impulse  which  ever  forces  men 
of  genius  along  their  peculiar  paths.  Jle  was  soon  again 
immersed  in  preparations  for  his  perilous  journeys,  and 
set  out  upon  them  with  as  much  hopefulness  and  joy  as 
had  ever  marked  his  earlier  days. 

Those  who  have  turned  uver  the  leaves  of  Audubon's 
large  books,  or  better  still,  who  remember  to  have  MTU 
the  collected  exhibition  he  once  made  in  the  Lyceum  of 
this  city,  will  recall  with  grateful  feeling  tlie  advantages 
of  his  method.  They  will  remember  how  that  vast  and 
brilliant  collection  made  it  appear  to  the  spectator  as  if  he 
had  been  admitted  at  once  to  all  sylvan  secrets,  or  at  -h-a^t 
that  the  gorgeous  infinity  of  the  bird-world  had  been  reveal 
ed  to  him  in  some  happy  moment  of  nature's  confidence.  A11 
the  gay  denizens  of  the  air  were  there,  —  some  alone  on  sway 
ing  twigs  of  the  birch  or  maple,  or  on  bending  ferns  and  .spires' 
of  grass  ;  others  in  pairs  tenderly  feeding  their  young  with 
gaudy  or  green  insects,  or  in  groups  pursuing  their  prey  or 
defending  themselves  fnuu  attack;  while  others  again  clove 
the  thin  air  of  the  hills  or  llitted  darkly  through  secluded 
brakes.  All  were  alive,  —  all  graceful,  —  all  joyous.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  feel  among  them  that  there  was  something 
in  birds  which  brought  them  nearer  to  our  affection  than  the 
rest  of  the  animal  tribes  ;  for  while  these  are  either  indifferent 


H  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUT1IOK3. 

to  us,  or  inimical,  or  mere  u  servile  ministers,"  birds  are  ever 
objects  of  admiration  ami  solicitude.-  No  body  loves  or  even 
so  much  as  likes  insects,  or  reptiles,  or  worms  ;  fishes  have 
an  unutterably  stupid  and  unsentimental  look,  and  deserve  to 
be  caught ;  wild  beasts,  though  sometimes  savagely  grand 
and  majestic,  are  always  dreadful,  and  tame  beasts  we  nub- 
jugate  and  therefore  despise;  but  birds  win  their  way  to  our 
hearts  and  imaginations  by  a  thousand  ties.  They  are  lovely 
in  their  forms  and  fascinating  in  their  habits.  They  have  canny 
knowing  eyes,  they  have  wonderfully  pretty  and  brilliant  hues, 
their  motions  are  the  perfection  of  beauty,  and  they  lead  free, 
happy,  melodious  lives.  Their  swift  and  graceful  evolutions, 
now  rising  like  an  arrow  to  the  very  gate  of  heaven,  and  anon 
outspeeding  the  wind .  as  it  curls  the  white  cups  of  the 
ocean,  and  above  all,  their  far  oil'  mysterious,  ilights  in. 
the  drear  autumn,  awaken  aspiration  and  thought,  ami 
breed  a  vague  mysterious  human  interest  in  tlicir  destinies, 
while  their  songs,  profuse,  varied,  sparkling,  sympathetic, 
glorious,  iilling  the  world  with  melody,  are  the  richest  and 
tcnderest  of  nature's  voices.  Among  the  recollections  of 
childhood,  those  of  the  birds  we  have  fed  and  cherished  are 
often  the  sweetest,  and  in  maturer  years  the  country-homo 
we  love,  the  nooks  where  we  have  meditated,  or  the  field  in 
which  we  have  worshipped,  are  the  greener  and  the  dearer 
for  the  memory  of  the  birds.  Thus  they  are  associated  with 
the  most  charming  features  of  the  external  world,  and  breathe 
a  t-pell  over  the  interior  world  of  thought.  They  are  the  po 
etry  of  nature,  and  at  the  name  time  a  pervading  presence 
of  poetry.  Shakfipeare,  Keats,  Shelley,  'JlimiK,  Uryant  and 
Wordsworth  are  their  laureates,  and  while  language  lasts  we 


A  U  D  U  B  O  N.  15 

shall  hear  an  echo  of  their  strains  in  the  cadences  of  "  im 
mortal  verse."- 

In  this  view  of  the  matter,  Andubon  needs  no  apology 
for  his  Hie-long  devotion  to  .birds,  or  for  the  affectionate 
interest  he  every  where  manifests  in  his  writings  about 
them.  It  must  not  be  understood  that  he  was  exclusive 
in  his  attachments,  for  besides  the  nomenclature  and  scien 
tific  descriptions  of  his  volumes,  there  lire  delightful  epi 
sodes  on  natural  scenery,  local  character  and  amusements, 
anecdotes  of  adventure,  and  sketches  of  the  grander  pheno 
mena  of  winds  and  floods.  In  one  place  lie  tells  us  of  an 
earthquake  he  experienced,  in  another  of  a  fearful  tempest, 
next  of  the  hospitality  of  old  friends  suddenly  and  strangely 
found  in  a  secluded  corner  of  Canada,  then  of  a  ball  in 
Newfoundland  or  of  a  Barbaeue  in  Kentucky,  and  anon  we 
are  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  the  maple-sugar  camp, 
or  stand  appalled  at  the  inhuman  feats  of  the  wreckers  of 
the  Florida  reefs.  His  style,  sometimes  a  little  too  ambi 
tious  and  diffuse,  is  always  vivacious  and  clear.  The  slight 
vein  of  egotism  that  runs  through  his  interludes,  gives  an 
added  charm  to  them,  while,  whatever  his  theme  or  your 
own  mood,  there-  is  a-u  impetuous  bounding  enthusiasm  in 
all  that  he  says, — a  strain  of  exuberant  and  exulting  ani 
mal  spirits,  that  carries  you  whither  he  wills.  A  Fedate, 
restrained,  dyspeptic  manner  would  have  been  impossible 
iu  one  writing  as  he  did  in  all  the  freshness  of  inspiration, 
and  in  the  immediate  presence  of  his  objects. 

When  Audubon  had  completed 'his  various  ornithologies, 
he  projected,  with  the  aid  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bach  man,  his  linn, 
friend,  the  well-known  geologist,  a  similar  work  in  respect  t<» 


k 
• 

. 
_ 
• 


. 

. 


AUDIT  BON.  17 

.but  it  was  to  be  supposed  .that  our  scientific  societies  and  out 
artist  associations  would  at  least  propose  a  monument  to  one 
who  was  so  rare  an  ornament  to  both.  Yet  if  they  wen*  neg 
lectful,  there  are  those  who  will  not  be,  and  who  will  long 
cherish  his  name:  and,  in  the  failure  of  all  human  memo- 
rials,  as  it  has  been  elsewhere  said,  the  little  wren  will  whis 
per  it  about  our  homes,  the  robin  and  the  reed-bird  pipe  it 
from  'the  meadows,  the  ring-dove  will  coo  it  from  the  dewy 
depths  of  the  woods,  and  the  mountain  eagle  scream  it  to 
the  stars. 


lames  $.  {bulling. 


g.  MM 

.  ,1^ 


I'AULDING. 


those  critics,  at  homo  and  abroad,  who  deny  that  thoiv 
is  any  essential  nationality  in  our  literature,  wo  mm- 
the  works  of  Paulding.  The  oldest  of  our  living 
authors,  and  alter  Brockden  Brown,  the  iirat  to  make  a 
creditable  i.nark  in  our  literary  history,  every  thin^  he  lias 
written  is  not  only  .American  in  subject  and  material,  but 
as  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  national  spirit  as  any  niieh 
body  of  works  that  ever  proceeded  from  the  brain  and  heart 
of  a  patriot.  It  is  half  a  century  ainee  he  made  his  lirst 


22  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

appearance  in  print,  and  at  seventy-five  ho  continues  to 
write  with  the  vivacity,  good  sense,  and  earnest  We  of 
country,  lor  which  he  has  been  distinguished  from  the 
beginning. 

Before  proceeding  with  a  description  of  the  residence 
of  the  veteran  novelist,  let  us  briefly  sketch  the  life  which 
is  drawing  to  its  close  in  a  place  HO  congenial  and  beau 
tiful. 

Mr.  PaUiding  is  of  the  old  Dutch  stock,  and  of  a  family 
ennobled  by  sacrifices  when  eaeriilces  were  the  seals  of 
devotion  to  liberty.  It  has  been  stated  that  he  was  born 
in  Pawling,  on  the  Hudson,  so  named  in  honor  of  one  of 
his  ancestors,  who  spelt  his  name  in  this  way;  but  his. real 
birth-place  was  Pleasant  Valley,  a  town  in  the  same  vicin 
ity,  where  he  came  into  the  world  on  the  twenty-second  of 
August,  177S.  His  father  was  a  member  of  the  1irst  New- 
York  Committee  of  Safety,  and  Commissary  General  of  the 
State  troops  ;  and  a  eoi^in  —  the  son  of  his  father's  elder 
brother  —  was  John  Paulding,  who  assisted  in  the  capture 
of  Andre. 

"\Yhile  the  army  was  suffering  from  cold  and  hunger  in 
the  Highlands,  from  the  inability  of  Congress  to  afford  ade 
quate  supplies,  Commissary  Paulding  on  his  own  responsi 
bility  furnished  the  necessary  means  for  their  subsistence. 
When  the  war  was  over  he  presented  his  account  for  adjust 
ment  at  the  ofh'ce  of  the  Auditor  General ;  it  was  refused^ 
and  he  returned  to  his  family  ruined  in  fortune,  to  bo 
thrown  into  prison  by  u  public  creditor.  His  coutinement 
was  at  length  ended  by  the  burning  of  the  prison,  after 
which  he  was  permitted  to  walk  unmolested  to  his  home, 


PAULDINO.  28 

where  the  remainder  of  his  lite  was  passed  in  poverty  and 
sucli  depression  as  might  well  bo  induced  by  a  recollection 
of  his  wrongs  and  Bufferings. 

This  brief  notice  of  the  father  furnishes  an  index  to  lin 
early  life  of  our  author,  lie  was  the  youngest  son,  and  his 
elder  brothers  being  compelled  to  go  from  home  in  order  to 
make  their  way  in  the  world,  he  was  left  without  associates 
to  wile  away  his  boyhood  in  the  reading  of  such  books  as 
wen*  in  the  family  library,  or  could  be  borrowed  in  the 
neighborhood.  Country  houses,  in  those  days,  were  not 
tilled  with  the  vagabond  literature  which  cloys,  weakens 
and  depraves  the  mind  of  the  now  rising  generation.  The 
works  apt  to  be  found  in  them  were  standard  travels,  biogra 
phies,  histories,  essays,  and  treatises  in  practical  religion, 
and  they  were  rarely  too  numerous  to  be  well  digested  • 
during  a  studious  minority,  to  the  great  advantage  of  oneV 
intellectual  health  and  character.  Thus,  in  the  society  of 
his  mother,  and  without  further  instruction  than  could  be 
obtained  at  a  little  log  school-house  about  two  miles  away, 
iu  listless  and  dreamy  solitude  passed  the  early  years  of  the 
author  of  "The  Dutchman's  Fireside,"  till  with  the  assist 
ance  of  one  of  his  brothers  he  obtained  a  place  in  a  public 
oftice  in  New-York. 

His  sister  had  married  Mr.  Peter  Irving,  a  merchant  of 
high  character,  afterward 'well  known  as  a  representative  of 
the  city  in  Congress,  and  through  him  he  became  acquainted 
with  his  younger  brother,  Washington  Irving,  with  whom  ho 
contracted  at  once  an  intimate  and  lasting  friendship.  They 
had  written  some  trifles  for  the.  gazettes  —  Paulding  a  few 
hits  at  the  follies  of  society,  and  Irving  his  "  Oliver  Old- 


24  HOMES    OF    AM  Kill  CAN    AUTHORS. 

stylo "  essays,  —  and,  meeting  ono  evening  at  a.  party,  it 
was  proposed  in  a  gay  conversation  to  establish  a  periodical 
in  which  to  lash  and  amuse  tho  town.  AVhcn.  they  next  met 
each  had  prepared  an  introductory  paper,  and  as  both  had 
some  points  too  good  to  be  sacrificed,  they  were  blended 
into  one,  Paulding's  serving  as  the  basis.-  They  adopted 
the  title  of  *'  Salmagundi,"  and  noon  after  published  a  small 
edition  of  their  first  number,  little  thinking  of  the  extraor 
dinary  success  which  awaited  it.  The  work  hud  a  great 
deal  of  freshness;  its  humor,  though  unequal,  was  nearly. 
always  lively  and  piquant,  and  as  its  satire  was  general, 
every  body  was  pleased.  Jts  reception  perhaps  determined 
the  subsequent  devotion  of  the  authors  to  literature.  The 
publisher  found  it  profitable,  as  he  paid  nothing  for  the  copy 
right,  and  on  his  refusal  to  make  any  remuneration  for  it, 
with  the  completion-  of  the  second  volume  it  was  suspended. 
In  the  following  half  dozen  years  Mr.  1'aulding  attended 
to  business  and  cultivated  the  increasing  and  brilliant  hocicty 
of  wits  and  men  of  genius  then  growing  up  in  the  city ;  and 
in  1813,  having  in  the. mean  while  written  occasionally  for 
the  magazines,  he  printed  his  next  book,  "  The  Lay  of  a 
Scotch  Fiddle,"  a  satirical  poem,  and  "Jokeby,"  a  burlesque 
of  u  Kokeby,"  in  six  cantos ;  and  in  the  succeeding  spring 
"The  United  States  and  England,"  in  reply  to  an  attack  on 
C.  J.  IngersolTs  u  Inchiquin  Letters,"  in  the  Quarterly  lie- 
view.  "The  Diverting  History  of  .John  .Bull  and  Brother 
Jonathan,"  the  most  successful  of  bis  satires,  appeared  in 
1S1G.  The  allegory  is  well  sustained,  and  the  style  has  a 
homely  simplicity  and  vigor  that  remind  us  of  Swift.  A 
part  of  this  year  was  passed  in  Virginia,  where  he  wrote  his 


PAULDINO.  25 

"Letters  from  the  South,"  published  in  1817.  The  humor  in 
them  is  not  in  his  happiest  vein,  and  the  soundness  of  some 
views  hero  displayed  respecting  education,  paper  currency, 
and  other  subjects,  may  be  questioned ;  but  the  volumes 
contain  many  interesting  sketches  of  scenery,  manners,  and 
personal  character,  and,  with  his  previous  writings,  they 
commended  him  to  the  notice  of  President  Madison,  who 
became-  his  warm  friend,  and  secured  for  him,  on  the  close 
of  the  war  with  England,  the  secretaryship  of  the  Board  of 
Navy  Commissioners,  which  he  held  —  as  may  be  statvd 
here-— until  he  was  made  Navy  Agent  in  New- York,  which 
oilicc  he  resigned, _  after  twelve  years,  to  enter  the  cabinet 
of  President  Van  Buren. 

In  1818  he  published  "The  Backwoodsman,"  a  descrip 
tive  poem,  and  in  the  next  year  the  second  series  of  "  Sal 
magundi,"  of  which  he  was  the  sole  author.  "  Konings- 
nuirke,  or  Old  Times  in  the  New  World,"  u  novel  founded 
on  incidents  in  the  early  history  of  Swedish  settlements  on 
the-  Delaware,  appeared  in  I8*i3 ;  "John  Bull  in  America" 
ill  1824;  and  "Merry  Tales  of  the  Three  Wise  Men  of 
Gotham"  in  18^0.  The  idea  that  the  progress  of  man 
kind  is  more  apparent  than  actual,  is  u  favorite  one  with 
him,  and  modern  improvements,  and  discoveries  in  politi 
cal  economy  and  productive  labor,  and  new  theories  of 
philosophy,  are  here  ingeniously  ridiculed.  "The  Book  of 
St.  Nicholas,"  a  collection  of  stories  purporting  to  be  trans 
lated  from  the  Dutch,  "The  New  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  con 
taining  some  of  the  best  specimens  of  his  satire,  and  "Tales 
of  a  Good  Woman,  by  a  Doubtful  Gentleman,"  came  out  in 
the  three  following  years. 


'20       HOMES  OF  AMKKICAN  AUTHORS. 

Tho  best  of  Mr.  Pauldmg's  novels,  "  The .  Dutchman's 
Fireside,"  was  published  in  IS.'H,  and  it  was  immediately 
uiid  decidedly  successful.  It  is  it  domestic  story  of  tho  time 
of  tho  "old  French  war;"  the  scenes  are  among  the  sources 
•  •I1  tho  Hudson,  on  tlie  borders  of  .Like  Champlain,  and  *in 
other  parts  of  the  province  of  Now- York ;  the  characters  are 
natural  and  distinctly  drawn,  and  from  the  outset  tho  reader 
feels  that  each  one  of  them  is  a  personal  acquaintance. 
Olio  of  tho  most  cleverly  executed  id  a  meddling  little  old 
Dutchman,  Ariel  Van  (Jour,  who  with  the  best  intentions  is 
continually  working  mischief — an  everyday  sort  of  person, 
nowhere  else  so  palpably  embodied.  Tho  hero,  Sybraut 
Vaii  (Jour,  is  educated  in  almost  total  seclusion,  and  finds 
himself  on  the  verge  of  manhood,  a  scholar,  ignorant  of  the 
world,  proud,  sensitive  and  suspicious,  unhappy,  and  a 
cause  of  unhappinesa  to  all  about  him.  His  transforma 
tion  is  effected  by  the  famous  Sir  William  Johnson,  whom 
he  accompanies  on  a  campaign,  and  in  the  end,  a  sclf-conii- 
dent  and  self-complacent  gentleman,  he  marries  a  woman 
whom  he  had  loved  all  the  while,  but  whom  his  infirmities 
had  previously  rendered  as  wretched  as  himself.  The  work 
is  marked  throughout  with  the  author's  quaint  and  peculiar 
humor,  and  it  is  a  delightful  picture  of  primitive  colonial 
life,  varied  witn  glimpses  of  the  mimic  court  of  the  gover 
nor,  where  ladies  figure  in  hoops  and  brocades,  and  of  the 
camp  in  the  wilderness,  and  the  strategy  of  Indian  warfare. 

In  the  following  year  he  published  ''Westward  Ho!" 
the  moral  of  which  story  is,  that  we  are  to  disregard  the 
presentiments  of  evil,  withstand  the  approaches  of  fanati 
cism,  and  feel  confident  that  the  surest  means  of  inducing  . 


PAULDING.  27 

a  gracious  interposition  of  Providence  in  our  i'uvor,  is  to 
persevere  ourselves  in  all  the  kindly  offices  of  humanity 
toward  the  unfortunate.  The  characters  are  .boldly  and 
skilfully  drawn :  the  Virginia  planter  who  squanders  hi* 
estate  in  a  prodigal  hospitality  and  with  the  remnant  A  of 
;i  liberal  fortune  seeks  n  new  home  in  untried  forests,  Zeno 
and  Judith  Paddock,  a  pair  of  village  inquisitors,  and  Hush- 
tirld,-  an  untamed  western  limner,  are  all  actual  and  indi- 
..  .geiuuis  beings.  lie  had  already  sketched  tho  Kentuckian, 
with  a  freer  but  less  skilful  hand,  in  hU  comedy  of  Nimrod 
Wildiire.  Whoever  wanders  in  the  footsteps  of  Daniel 
Intone  will  still  meet  with  IJushlields,  though  until  he 
approaches  nearer  the  Koeky  Mountains  the  rough  edges 
of  the  character  may  be  somewhat  softened  down  ;  and 
Dangerfields  are  not  yet  strangers  in  Virginia. 

His  next  work  was  on  "Slavery  in  the  United  Statvs," 
an  unhesitating  defence  of  the  institution  again>t  every  sort 
of  religious,  moral  and  economical  attacks ;  and  this  was 
followed  in  1835  by  his  admirable  "  Life-  of  Washington,' 
addressed  to  the  youth  of  the  country,  and  constituting  the 
most  just  ami  attractive  personal  history  of  the  great  chiel 
ever  written. 

Retiring  from  public  life  in  1841,  after  having  served 
four  years  as  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  Mr.  Paulding  at  tho 
age  of  sixty-three  resumed  his  pen,  and  some  of  his  inaga 
zine  papers  produced  since  that  time  are  equal  to  any  of  the 
compositions  of  his  most  vigorous  days.  In  184<>  he  pub- 
lished  a  new  novel,  "The  Old  Continental,"  which  is  dis 
tinguished  for  all  his  peculiarities  of  manner  and  spirit, 
and  in  18v>0  his  last  novel  "The  PuritanV Daughter." 


28  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUT.IIOK8. 

Tho  work*  hero  enumerated  iill  twenty-seven  volumes, 
and  half  a  dozen  more  might  be  made  of  his  miscellane 
ous  tales,  essays,  ballads,  and  other  contributions  to  the 
periodicals,  constituting  perhaps  the  most  popular  as  well 
as  characteristic  portion  of  his  writings. 

As  we  have  Baid,  Ire  is  a  national  author':  ho  has  little 
respect  lor  authority  unsupported  by  reason,  but  on  all  sub 
jects  has  thought  and  judged  for  himself}  he  has  defended 
our  government  and  institutions  and  embodied  what  is 
peculiar  in  our  manners  and  opinions,  aiul  there  is  scarcely 
a  person  in  all  his  dramas  who  would  not  in  any  country  be 
instantly  recognized  us  an  American,  lie  is  unequalled  in 
a  s<»rt  of  quaint  and  .whimsical  humor,  but  occasionally  i'alls 
into  coarseness,  and  the  unnecessary  habit  of  labelling  his 
characters,  as  if  doubtful  of  thvir  possessing  sufficient,  indi 
viduality  to  be  otherwise  distinguishable.  .Hut  the  motley 
crowds  at  our  watering-places,  the  ridiculous  extravagance 
and  ostentation  of  the  suddenly  made  rich,  the  ascendency 
of  pocket  over  brain  in  affairs  of  love,  and  all  the  fopperies 
and  follies  of  our. mimic  worlds,  are  described  by  him  in  a 
most  diverting  manner,  while  he  treats  the  more  serious  sins 
of  society  with  an  appropriate  severity. 

The-  residence  of  Air.  Paulding,  of  which  a  sketch  is 
presented  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  is.bituated  on 
the  east  bank  of  the  Hudson,  about  eight  miles  above  the 
town  of  Poughkeepsie,  in  the  county  of  Duchess,  and  the 
farm  ho  now  occupies  is  part  of  the  grant  of  a  manor  by 
William  the  Third  to  one  of  his  ancestors.  This  property 
has  long  since  been  divided  into  smaller  portions  among 
a  succession  of  proprietors,  and  the  only  part  now  in  pos- 


i'AULDING.  •    29 

session  of  the  family  is.  that  occupied  by  Mr.  Paulding,  who 
purchased  it  about  ten  years  ago. 

The  'house  is  on  a  natural  terrace,  whence  descends  an 
undulating  lawn  of  Home  twenty  or  twenty-five  acres,  to  the 
river,  which  is  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  and  about 
a  mile  wide.  The  whole  farm  is  singularly  picturesque, 
being  entirely  in  grass,  with  the  exception  of  the  garden, 
and  numerous  copses  and  clumps  of  wood,  planted  by  thu 
hand  of  Nature,  and  displaying  some  of  her  most  happy 
combinations  and  diversities. 

The  view  from  the  piazxa  presents:  a  variety  of  lake 
ncencry  —  the  river  being  occasionally  intercepted  by  project 
ing  points  and  graceful  curves,  that  for  a  little  space  hide  i\f. 
cour.se.  Looking  to  the  southwest  and  west,  the  eye  rests 
on  the  opposite  shores  of  the  river,  which  rise  at  iirst  al>- 
ruptly,  sometimes  in  rocky  precipices,  crowned  by  a  rich 
slope  of  cultivated  land  sprinkled  with  country-seats  and 
farm-house.-,  and  reaching  the  base  of  a  range  of  wood- 
crowned  mountains,  which  ends,  nearly  opposite  the  house, 
in  a  high  blulf,  resembling  in  outline  and  magnitude  An 
thony's  Nose,  in  the  Highlands  below.  Beyond  this,  and 
between  another  range  of  hills,  opens  a  vista  of  Borne 
twenty  miles,  terminated  by  the  Shawangunk  mountains. 

Towards  the  north,  looking,  from  the  piazza  over  a  rich 
undulating  country,  occasionally  rising  into  considerable 
hills,  the  prospect  is  closed  by  the  Catskill  Mountains, 
which  are  seen,  from  the  base  to  the  summits,  in  all  their 
Alpine  features  and  graceful  outlines,  at  a  distance  of  some 
twenty  or  thirty  miles.  A  little  rocky  island,  covered 
with  evergreens,  and  about  half  a  mile  in  length,  lies 


30  HOMES    OP    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

in  the  centre  of  the  river,  and  adds  to  the  beauty  of  the 
.scenery. 

Here,  surrounded  \)y  a  growing  family  of  grandchildren, 
Mr.  Paulding  lias  resided  the  last  ten  years,  during  which 
time  ho  has  visited  the  city  hut  once,  to  attend  the  marriage 
»f  a  relation.  Ho  lias  retired  from  the  world,  not  in  disgust 
ir  disappointment,  for  it  has  always  treated  him  better  than 
he  deserved,  lie  Bays,  but  because  ho  is  of  opinion  that  at 
seventy-five  men  are  generally  more  iit  lor  contemplation 
than  for  action,  and  better  qualified  to  benefit  the  world 
by  their  precepts  than  their  example,  that  at  this  age;  a 
man  should  consider  the  balancing  of  old  accounts  rather, 
than  the  opening  of  new  ones,  and  that  the  traveller  so 
near  his  journey's  end  should  prepare-  for  putting  up  for 
the  night. 

S'till  in  conversing  with  him  we  observe  that  he  feels  a 
profound  interest  in  the  general  welfare,  that  he  has  not 
outlived  that  ardent  love  of  country  which  glows  in  all  his 
writings,  and  what  perhaps  is  more  remarkable,  that  he  con 
tinues  to  cherish  an  almost  youthful  feeling  for  the  beauties 
of.  nature  by  which  he  is  surrounded.  In  pleasant  weather 
he  occupies  himself  every  day  an  hour  «>r  t\vo  in  working  on 
his  farm  —  of  cc  **se  not  in  very  laborious  duties — -but  the 
greater  portion  of  his  time  is  spent  -in  reading  and  writing, 
as  ho  says,  not  so  much  with  a  view  to  become  wiser  or 
to  enlighten  others  as  to  relieve  himself  from  two  of  the 
heaviest  burdens  of  life  —  old  age  and  unoccupied  time. 

The  Veteran  Htt<.r«tcur  we  find,  like  most  persons  win- 
have  long  passed  the  meridian  of  life,  is  rt  staunch  conserv 
ativc,  even  less  indulgent  of  all  the  pretences  of  progress 


PAUL  DING.  81 

than  when  he  wrote  the  history  of  the  "  Seven  \Vise  Men 
of  Gotham."    The  world  lie  thinks  is  quite  as  apt  to  move 
backward*  as  forwards;  he  says  it  is  becoming  conceited, 
which  is  a  good  sign  ;  and  in  a  recent  letter,  which  we  ven 
ture  to  quote,  he  reminds  us,  referring  to  the  headlong  fpee- 
ulation  of  the  new  generation,  that  "the  ardor  of  genius  is 
very  diifetvnt  from  the  presumption  of  ignorance,  and  the 
m«»re  we  learn  the  btrongcr  becomes  our  conviction    that 
whatever  may  be  our  progress  in  removing  doubts,  it  is  only 
to    be   involved    in   others    still    more   inextricable  —  only 
groping  in  the  dark  for  Captain  KydV buried  money/1    Ik- 
is  fully  persuaded  that  the  ancients  were  as  wine  as  the 
modems,  that  in  the  lapse  of  ages  the  world  forgets  full  as 
much  as  it  learns,  and  that  most  if  not  all  of  the  theories 
of  our  philosophers  were  hiiggc.-ted  in  the  old  schools,  wh«»>e 
ma>ters  ili tiered  from  the  reck!e>>  teachers  of  our  time  only 
in  an  unwillingness  to  endanger  the  existence  of  society  by 
practical  applications  of  vague  speculations  unsupported  by 
M»und  reason.     On  the  whole,  he  concludes  that,  however 
it  may  be  with  the  present,  our  intellectual  eccentricities, 
under  the  direction  of  a  wise  Providence,  will  hereafter  tend 
to  the  general  benefit  of  the  human  race,  or  at -least  leave  it 
but  more  strongly  convinced  of  the  immutability  of  ancient 
truths  ;  that  the  wisdom  of  Omnipotence  is  the  best  cor 
rective  of  the  presumption  of  its  creatures,  and  often  eaves 
tlni  ship  when  the  crew  is  intoxicated,  the  captain  desperate, 
and  the  pilot  asleep  at  the  helm. 

Such  are  some  of  the  "whim-whams  and  opinions" 
thrown  out  in  various  conversations  by  uLauncclot  J^ang- 
Mat!"'  in  his  old  ago  ;  and  in  his  pleasant  home  by  the 


32  II  O  M  E  8    O  F    A  M  E  It  1  C  A  N    A  U  T  11  0  K  8. 

Hudson  he  1ms  such  enjoyment  of  his  philosophy  AS  should 
be  derived  from  a  conviction  of  its  truth,  and  .the  conscious 
ness  of  a  life  well  spent  in  its  vindication  and  in  agreement 
with  its  precepts. 


SSfasjiington  Ming. 


'1 


,. 


t^/< 


y         7 
^      V  4,St 


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>- 


*>r-       ^   <<> 


•f-csSfi  JL  I  "-'iff  *  «.»  *   '\  -'A     il    .'••—*-  .....  JS^*  ~ 

•     • 


. 


. 

^^^^ta&^ 


•IRVING. 


E  similarity  of  the  landscape  in  different  portions  of 
the  country,  is  often  mentioned  as  a  detect  in  our  seen* 
cry  ;  but  it  lias  the  advantage  of  constantly  affording  an 
epitome  of  imturo  and  an  identity  of  euirgi^tiun  favorable 
to  national  associations.  "Without  the  wild  beauty  of  the 
Uhio  or  the  luxuriant  vegetation  of  the  Mississippi,  the 
Hudson  thus  pre>ervi-s  a  ci-rtain  vcri-BJmilituJo  in  the  form 
<>f  its  banks,  the  windings  of  its  channel,  and  the  hills  and 
trees  along  its  shores,  essentially  American,  The  reflective 


3t]  HOMES    OF    AM  Kit  1C  AN    A  I- T  110  It  8. 

observer  can  easily  find  in  these  characteristic  featured,  and 
in  the  details  of  the  panorama  that  meets  his  eye,  even 
during  a  rapid  transit,  tokens  of  all  that  is  peculiar  and 
fiideured  in  the  condition  and  history  of  his  native  land  ; 
and  it  is  therefore  not  less  gratifying  to  his  sense  of  the 
appropriate  than  his  feeling  for  the  beautiful,  that  the 
home  of  our  favorite  author  should  consecrate  the  scene. 
To  realize  how  the  Hudson  thus  identities  itself  with 
national  associations,  while  scanning  the  details  wo  must 
bear  in  mind  the  general  relations  of  the  noble  river,— 
the  great  metropolis  toward  which  it  speeds;  the  isle-gemmed 
bay  and  adjacent  ocean;  and  then  reverting  to  the  chain  of 
inland  eeas  with  which  it  is  linked,  and  the  junction  of  its 
grandest  elevations  with  the  vast  range  of  the  Alleghanies 
that  intersect  the  boundless  West,  recall  the  intricate  net 
work  of  iron  whereby  the  most  distant  village  that  nestles 
at  their  feet  is  connected  with  its  picturesque  shores  ;  thus 
Regarded  as  a  vital  part  of  a  sublime  whole,  the  Hudson  tills 
the  imagination  with  grandeur  while  it  fascinates  the  eye  with 
loveliness.  A  few  mi.les  from  the  shores,  and  in  many  instances 
on  the  highest  ranges  of  hills,  gleam  isolated  lakes,  fringed 
with  woods  and  dotted  with  small  islands,  whence  axalia  bios- 
nuns  and  feathery  shrubs  overhang  the  water,  which  is  pellucid 
as  crystal,  in  summer  decked'  with  lilies,  in  winter  allording 
inexhaustible  quarries  of  ice,  and,  at  all  seasons,  the  most 
romantic  haunts  for  the  lover  of  nature.  Nor  is  this  com 
jirehensive  aspect  confined  to  the  river's  natural  adjuncts.. 
The  immediate  localities  are  equally  significant.  On  the 
Jersey  shore,  which  meets  the  gaxe  at  the  very  commence 
ment  of  the  upward  voyage,  are  visible  the  grove  where 


IRVING.  37 

Hamilton  foil  —  the  most  affecting  incident  in  our  political 
annals ;  and  the  heights  of  Weehawkon,  celebrated  by  the. 
muse  of  Ilalleek ;   soon,  on   the  opposite  shore,  we  descry 
the   evergreen    foliage    of  Trinity   Church    Cemetery,  be 
neath   which   lie  the  remains    of   that  brave  explorer  of 
the  forest  ami   lover  of  the  winged   tribes  of  the  land  — 
Audubon ;   now  rise  the  Palisades ---nearest  landmarks  of 
the  bold  stand  first  taken  by  the  colonists  against  British 
•oppression,  where   Fort  Washington  was  captured   by  the 
Hessians  in  1770;   and  whence  the  enemy's  vessels  of  war 
were  so  adroitly  frightened  away  by  Talbot's  lire-ship,  and 
the  most  persecuted  martyrs  of  the  Revolution  were  borne 
to  the  infamous  prison-ship  at  Long  Island.    This  wonderful 
range  of  columnar  rock,  varying  in  height  from  fifty  to  five 
hundred  feet,  and  extending  along  the  river  to  the  distance 
of  twenty  miles,  rises  perpendicular  from   the  water,  and 
the  channel  often  runs  immediately  at  its  base.     The  gray, 
indented   sides  of  this  natural   rampart,  its  summit   tufted 
with   thickets,  and  a  few  fishers'  huts  nestled  at   its  foot, 
resembles   the   ancient  walls   of  an    impregnable   fortress; 
here  and  there  the  traces  of  a  wood-slide  mark  its  weather- 
stained  face  ;   and  in  the  stillness  of  a  winter  day,  when 
the  fro/en  water  collected  in  its  apertures  expands  in  the 
sunshine,  from  the  other  side  of  the  river  may  be  distinctly 
heard  the  clang  of  the  falling  trap-rock  dissevered  from  the 
mass.     Opposite  are  seen  the  variegated  hills  and  dales  of 
Westchester  •county.     There  let  us  pause,  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  our  author's  residence,  to  view  the  familiar  scene 
amid  which  he  lives.    (Jaze  from  beneath  any  of  the  numer 
ous  porticos  that  hospitably  oiler  shelter  on  the  hillsides  and 


38  1IOKES    OF    AMEHICAN    A  U  T  II  O  U  S. 

at  the  river's  marge,  breathe  the  pure  air,  and  contemplate 
the  fresh  tints  of  a  June  morning.  In  this  vicinity  the 
river  expands  to  the  width  of  two  or  three  miles,  form 
ing  what  is  called  Tappan  Bay  —  which,  seen  from  the 
surrounding  eminences,  appears  like  an  immense  lake  ;  pic 
turesque  undulations  limit  the  view,  meadows  covered 
with  luxuriant  grain  that  waves  gracefully  in  the  breeze, 
emerald  with  turf,  dark  with  copses,  or  alive  with  tas 
sel  led  maize,  alternate  with  clumps  of  forest-trees  or  cheer 
ful  orchards;  over  this  scene  of  rural  prosperity  ilit  gor 
geous  clouds  through  a  firmament  of  pale  azure,  and  around 
it  wind  roads  that  seem  to  lure  the  spectator  into  the 
beautiful  glens  of  the  neighbouring  valleys.  Nearer  to  his 
eye  are  patches  of  woodland  overhanging  ravines,  where 
rock,  foliage  and  stream  combine  to  form  a  romantic  and 
sequestered  retreat,  invaded  by  no  sound  but  that  of  rust 
ling  leaf,  chirping  bird,  humming  insect,  or  snapping  chest 
nut-burr  ;  parallel  with  the.se  delicious  nooks  that  usually 
overhang  the  river,  arc  fields  in  the  highest  state  of  culti 
vation  surrounding  elegant  mansions;  but  farther  inland 
t  retch  pastures  where  the  mullein  grows  undisturbed,  stone 
walls  and  vagrant  fences  divide  fallow  acres,  the  sweet- 
briar  clambering  over  their  rugged  surface,  clumps  of  elder- 
bushes  or  a  few  willows  clustered  about  a  pond,  ami  the 
red  cones  of.  the  sumac,  dead  leaves,  brown  mushroom*  and 
downy  thistles,  mark  one  of  those  neglected  yet  wildly  rural 
spots  which  Crabbe  loved  to  describe.  Even  here  at  the 
sunset  hour,  we  have  but  to  .turn  towards  the  river,  at  some 
elevated  point,  and  a  scene  of  indescribable  beauty  is  ex 
hibited.  The  placid  water  is  tinted  with  amber,  hues  of 


IttVING.  39 

transcendent  brightness  glow  along  the  western  horizon, 
fleecy  masses  of  vapor  are  illumined  with  exquisite  shades 
of  color;  deep  scintillations  of  rose  or  purple  kindle  the 
edges  of  the  clouds ;  the  zenith  wears  u  crystalline  tone ; 
tli.e  vesper  star  twinkles  with  a  bright  though  softened  ray ; 
and  the  peace  of  heaven  seems  to  descend  upon  the  trans 
parent  wave  and  the  balmy  air.  And  if  we  observe  the 
immediate  scene  around  one  of  the  humble  red-roofed 
homesteads  or  superior  dwellings,  which  are  scattered  over 
•  the  hillsides  and  valleys  of  this  region,  and  call  back  the 
vision  from  its  widest  to  the  most  narrow  range,  the  eye 
is, not  less  gratified,  nor  the  heart  less  moved,  by  images 
of  rustic  comfort  and  beauty.  Perhaps  a  large  tulip-tree, 
with  its  broad  expanse  of  -verdure  and  waving  chalices,  or 
a  superb  chestnut,  plumed  with  feathery  blossoms,  lends  its 
grateful  shade,  while  we  follow  the  darting  swallow,  watch 
the  contented  kino,  or  curiously  note  the  humming-bird 
poised,  like  a  fragment  of  the  rainbow,  over  a  woodbine 
wreathed  about  the  porch,  and  mark  the  downy  bee  cling 
ing  to  the  mealy  stamen  of  the  holy  hock,  or  murmuring  on 
the  pink  globe  of  the  clover.  The  odor  of  the  hay-field, 
the  glancing  of  countless  white  sails  far  below,  the  flitting 
of  shadows  and  the  refreshing  breeze  —  all  unite  to  form  a 
picture  of  tranquil  delight.  Resuming  our  course,  after 
such  an  interlude,  we  pass  the  scene  of  the  gallant  ami 
unfortunate  Andre's  capture -and  execution.  Stoney  Point, 
where  another  fierce  struggle  for  our  liberties  occurred,  the 
Hte  of  the  fortification  being  marked  by  a  lighthouse,  the 
towering  Dunderberg  mountain,  and  that  lofty  promontory 
called  Anthony's  nose,  where  a  sudden  turn  of  the  river  in 


40  HOMES    OF    AME1UCAX    A  U  Til  O  118. 

a  western  direction  all  at  once  ushers  us  into  the  glorious 
Highlands.  The  house  once  occupied  by  the  traitor  Arnold 
is  soon  forgotten  in  the  thought  of  Kosciusko,  whose  imuui- 
uicnt  rises  on  the  precipitous  bank  at  West  Point ;  and 
here  the  wild  umbrage  that  covers  Oo'nest  recalls  Drake V 
nuiciful  poem ;  and  old  Fort  Putnam,  crowning  the  highest 
of  the  majestic  hills,  seems  waiting  for  the  moonbeams  to 
clothe  its  ruins  with  enchantment;  IJuttermilk  fall  glimmers 
on. one. side,  while  the  proud  summit  of  the  Grand  Sachem 
towers  on  the  other.  Then  opens  the  bay  of  Ncwbnrgh,  a 
town  memorable  as  the  spot  where  the  mutinous  letters  of 
(he  Involution  were  dated,  and  where  the  headquarters 
and  parting  scene  of  .Washington  and  his  officers  are  con 
secrated  to  endeared  remembrance,  lleyond  appear  the 
most  beautiful  domains  in  the  land,  where  broad  ranges 
of  meadow  and  groups  of  noble  trees,  in  the  highest  state 
of  order  and  fertility,  transport  us  in  fancy  to  the  rural 
life  of  England.  The  last  great  feature  of  this  matchless 
panorama  is  the  Kaatskill  Mountains  rising  in  their  misty 
shrouds,  or,  in  a  clear  atmosphere,  stretching  away  in  mag-- 
niii cent  proportions,  whence  the  eye  may  wander  for  sixty 
miles  over  a  country  mapped  by  prolific  acres,  with  every 
shade  of  verdure  —  sublimated,  as  it  were,  by  interminable 
ranges  of  mountain,  and  animated  by  the  silvery  windings, 
of  the  Hudson,  whose  gleaming  tide  lends  brilliancy  to  the 
more  dense  hues  of  tree,  field  and  umbrageous  head 
land. 

The  navigable  extent  of  the  river,  and  the  fresh  tints 
of  its  water,  banks  and  sky,  arc  in  remarkable  contrast 
with  those  celebrated  transatlantic  streams  endeared  to 


r  .  1 11  V  I  N  G.  41 

our  imaginations.  To  an  American  the  first  view  of  the 
Tiber  and  the  Seine,. their  turbid  waters  and  flat  shores, 
occasions  peculiar  disappointment ;  and  it  is  the  associa 
tions  of  the  lihine  and  Lake  Conio,  and  those  features 
they  derived  from  art,  which  chiefly  give  them  superi 
ority.  The  mellow  light  of  the  past  and  the  charm  of  an 
historical  name,  invest  the  ruined  castles  and  famed  locali 
ties  of  their  shores  with  an  enduring  interest. 

In  the  spirit  of  hearty  enthusiasm  not  loss  than  local 
attachment,  does  Irving  thank  Clod  he  was  born  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson;  for  it  possesses  all  the  elements 
requisite  to  inspire  the  fancy  and  attach  the  heart.  The 
blue  waving  line  of  its  distant  hills  in  the  twilight  of  the 
early  dawn  ;  the  splendid  hues  of  its  surrounding  foliage 
in  autumn ;  the  glassy  expanse  of  its  broad  surface,  and 
the  ermine  drapery  of  its  majestic  promontories  in  wiirter; 
the  scene  of  verdant  luxury  it  presents  in  summer;  its 
sheltered  nooks,  pebbly  coves  and  rocky  bluffs;  the  echoes 
of  the  lofty  Highlands  and  the  balmy  hush  of  evening, 
when  the  saffron-tinted  water  reflects  each  passing  sail, 
and  the  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will  or  monotone  of  the 
Katy-did,  are  the  only  sounds  of  life  —  all  utter  a  mysteri 
ous  appeal  to  the  senses  and  imagination. 

Washington  Irving,  although  so  obviously  adapted  by 
natural  endowments  for  the  career  in  which  he  has  acquir 
ed  such  eminence,  was  educated,  like  many  other  men  of 
letters,  for  the  legal  profession  ;  he,  however,  early  aban 
doned  the  idea  of  practice  at  the  bar  for  the  more  lucra 
tive  vocation  of  a  merchant.  His  brothers  were  estab 
lished  in  business  in  the  city  of  New- York,  and  invited 


42  IIOMES    OF    AM  URIC  AN    AUTHORS. 

him  to  take  oil  interest  iu  their  house,  with  the  under* 
standing  that  his  literary  tastes  should  he  gratified  by 
abundant  leisure.  The  unfortunate  crisis  in  mercantile 
affairs  that  followed  the  peace  of  1815,  involved  his  family, 
and  threw  him  upon  his  own  resources  for  subsistence. 
To  this  apparent  disaster  is  owing  his  subsequent  devotion 
to  literature.  The  strong  bias  of  his  own  nature,  how 
ever,  had  already  indicated  this  destiny  ;  his  inaptitude  for 
affair*,  his  sensibility  to  the  beautiful,  his  native  humor 
and  the  love  he  early  exhibited  for  wandering,  observing, 
and  indulging  in  day-dreams,  would  infallibly  have  led 
him  to  record  his  fancies  and  feelings.  Indeed,  ho  had 
already  done  so  with  cifect  in  a  series  of  letters  which 
appeared  in  a  newspaper  of  which  his  brother  was  editor. 
His  tendency  to  a  free,  meditative  and  adventurous  life, 
was  continued  by  a  visit  to  Europe  in  his  early  youth. 
Born  in  the  city- of  New- York  on  the  IU1  of  April,  17t>3,*  ho 
pursued  his  studies,  his  rambles,  tind  his  occasional  pen 
craft  there  until  1804,  when  ill-health  made  it  expedient 
for  him  to  go  abroad.  He  sailed  for  Bordeaux,  and  thenco 
roamed  over  the  most  beautiful  portions  of  Southern 
Europe,  visited  Switzerland  and  Holland,  sojourned  in 
Paris,  and  returned  home  in  ISUG.  During  his  absence 
he  seriously  entertained  the  idea  of  becoming  a  painter;  but 
subsequently  resumed  his  law  studies,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar.  Soon  after,  however,  the  first  number  of  Sal 
magundi  appeared,  an  era  in  our  literary  annals;  and  in 
December,  1801),  was  published  "Knickerbocker's  History 

»  The  Louse  in  which  Mr.  Irving  wu*  U>rn  »toml  at  No.  llil  WUltuiu*atiwt. 
It  wua  rej»lttce4  iu  1840  l»y  one  of  the  "Washington  Store*." 


IRVING.  43 

of  New-York."    lie  afterwards  edited  the  Analcctic  Maga- 

O 

fcine.  la  the  autumn  of  1814  he  joined  the  military  stall' 
of  the  Governor  of  New-York,  as  aid-decamp  and  secre-  > 
tary,  with  the  title  of  colonel.  At  the  close  of  the  war  he 
embarked  for  Liverpool,  with  a  view  of  making  a  second 
tour  in  Europe ;  but  the  financial  troubles  intervening,  and 
the  remarkable  success  which  had  attended  his  literarv 
enterprises  being  an  encouragement  to  pursue  a  vocation 
which  necessity,  not  less  than  taste,  now  urged  him  to  fol 
low,  lie  embarked  in  the  career  of  authorship.  The  papers 
which  were  published  under  the  title  of  "The  Sketch-Hook,'' 
at  once  gained  him  the  sympathy  and  admiration  of  his 
contemporaries.  They  originally  appeared  in  New- York, 
but  attracted  immediate  attention  in  England,  and  were 
republishcd  there  in  1S20.  After  residing  there  five  years. 
Mr.  Irving  again  visited  Paris,  and  returned  to  bring  out 
"  Hracebridge  Hall"  in  London  in.  May,  1S±>.  The  next 
winter  he  passed  in  Dresden,  and  in  the  following  spring 
put  "Tales  of  a  Traveller"  to  press.  lie  soon  after  went 
to  Madrid  and  wrote  the  Life  of  Columbus,  which  appeared 
in  IS^S,  In  the  spring  of  that  year  he  visited  the  South 
nf  Spain,  and  the  result  was  the  Chronicles  of  the-Con- 
que.st  of  Granada,  which  was  published  in  !SL>!>.  The 
same  year  he  revi.Mtcd  that  region,  and  collected  the  mate 
rials  for  his  "Alhambra."  He  was  soon  after  appointed 
Secretary  of  Legation  to  the  American  Embassy  in  London, 
which  utlice  he  held  until  the  return  of  Mr.  Me  Lane  in 
1S:J1.  While  in  England  he  received  one  of  the  iifty- 
'  guinea  gold  medals  provided  by  George  IV.  for  eminence 
in  historical  composition,  and  the  degree  of  LL.  1).  from 


44  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

tho  University  of  Oxford.  Ilia  return  to  New-York  in 
1833  was  greeted  by  a  festival,  at  which  were  gathered  his 
surviving  friends  and  all  the  illustrious  men  ot  his  native 
metropolis.  The  following  summer  he  accompanied  one 
of  the  Commissioners  for  rcnioving  the  Indian  tribes  west 
of  the  Mississippi.  Tho  fruit  of  this  exclusion  was  Ins 
graphic  "Tour  on  the  "Prairies."  Soon  after  appeared 
u Abbotsfortl  and  Xewstead  Abbey,"  and  "Legends  of  the 
Conquests  of  Spain."  In  1SIUJ  he  published  "  Astoria,"  and 
in  IS37  "The  Adventures  of  Capt.  JJonneville."  In  iSW 
ho  contributed  several  papers  to  the  *•  Knickerbocker  Maga 
zine."  Karly  in  184:2  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  Spain. 
On  his  return  to  this  country  in  18 HI,  he  began  the  publi 
cation 'of  a  revised  edition  of  his  works,  to  the  list  of  which 
he  has  since  added  a  Life  of  Goldsmith  and  »*  Mahomet 
and  his  Successors';"  and  ho  is  now  engaged  upon  a  Life 
of  Washington.  This  outline  should  be  tilled  by  tin;  reader1* 
imagination  with  the  accessories  and  the  coloring  incident 
to  so  varied,  honorable  and  congenial  a  life.  In  all  his 
wanderings,  his  eye  was  busied  with  tho  scenes  of  nature, 
and  cognizant  of  their  every  feature,  his  nu-mory  brooded' 
over  the  traditions  of  the  past,  and  his  heart  caught  and 
retlected  every  phase  of  humanity.  With  the  feelings  of 
a  poet  and  the  habitudes  of  an  artist,  he  thus  wandered 
over  the  rural  .districts  of  merry  England,  the  melancholy 
hills  of  romantic  Spain,  and  the  exuberant  wilderness  of 
his  native  land,  gathering  up  their  most  picturesque  ar^uvts 
and  their  most  atlecting  legends,  and  transferring  them,  with 
the  pure  and  vivid  colors  of  his  genial  expression,  into  per 
manent  memorials.  Every  quaint  outline,  every  mellowed 


lilVING.  45 

tint,  the  aerial  perspective  that  leads  the  sight  into  the 
mazes  of  antiquity,  the  amusing  still-lilb  or  characteristic 
human'  attributes, — all  that  excites  wonder,  sympathy  ami 
merriment,  lie  thus  recognized  and  preserved,  and  shed 
over  all  the  sunny  atmosphere  of  a  kindly  heart  and  the 
freshness  of  a  natural  zest,  and  the  attraction  of  a  modest 
character,  —  a  combination  which  has  been  happily  charac 
terized  by  Lowell  in  the  Fable  ibr  Critics : 

"What!   Irving  I   thrice  welcome  warm  heart  and  fine  bruin, 

You  Ining  Imok  the  liappicst  spirit  from  Spain, 
.    An»l  the  gravest  sweet  humor,  that  ever  were  there 
Since  Cervantes  met  tleath  in  hU  gentle  despair; 
N'uy,  don't  bo  coibaimated,  nor  look  BO  beseeching, 
I  chun'l  run  directly  against  my  own  preaching, 
And  having  ju~t  laughed  at  their  Raphaels  and  Dantes, 
(Jo  to  betting  you  up  beside  matchless  Cervantes; 
Hut  allow  mo  to  hpeak  what  I  honestly  feel, 
To  a  true  poet-heart  add  the  fun  of  Dick  Steele, 
'1'limw  in  all  of  Addi*on,  minus  the  chill, 
With  the  whole  of  that  partnership's  stock  and  good-will, 
Mix  well,  and  while  stirring,  hum  o'er,  as  a  rj *.•!!, 
The  'line  old  Kngliah  (icntleman,'  ijimmcr  it  well, 
Sweeten  jiiat  to  your  own  private  liking,  then  etrain, 
That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  remain. 
1  .  t  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  u  .-.ml  it  receiver 
From  the  warm  lazy  sun  loitering  down  through  given  leave*, 
And  you'll  find  a  choice,  nature  not  wholly  deserving 
A  name  either  English  or  Yankee — just  Irving." 

The  eminent  success  which  has  attended  the  late  repul*- 
lication  of  Irving's  works,  teaches  a  lesson  that  we  hope  will 
not  bo  lost  on  the  cultivators  of  literature.  It  proves  a  truth 
which  all  men  of  enlightened  taste  intuitively  feel,  but  which 


43  HOMES   OF   AMKKIOAN    AUTHORS. 

is  constantly  forgotten  by  perverse  aspirants  for  liternry  fame , 
and  that  is  —  the  permanent  value  of  a  direct,  simple  and  nat 
ural  style.  It  is  not  only  the  genial  philosophy ,  the  huniano 
spirit,  the  humor  and  pathos  of  Irving,  which  endear  his 
writings  and  secure  for  them  an  hahitmd  interest,  but  it  is 
the  refreshment  afforded  by  a  recurrence  to  the  unalloyed, 
unaffected,  clear  and  flowing  style  in  which  he  invariably 
expresses  himself. 

The  place  which  our  author  holds  in  national  affection 
can  never  be  superseded.  His  name  is  indissolubly  asso 
ciated  with  the  dawn  of  our  recognized  literary  culture. 
Wo  have  always  regarded  his  popularity  in  England  as 
one  of  the  most  charming  traits  of  his  reputation,  and 
that,  too,  for  the  very  reasons  which  narrow  critics  once 
.assigned  as  derogatory  to  his  national  spirit.  His  treat 
ment  of  English  subjects ;  the  felicitous  manner  in.  which 
he  revealed  the  life  of  our  ancestral  land  to  .us  her  pros 
perous  offspring,  mingled  as  it  was  with  vivid  pictures  of 
our  own  scenery,  touched  a  chord  in  the  heart  which 
responds  to. all  that  is  generous  in.  sympathy  and  noldo 
.in  association.  If  we-  regard  Irving  with  national  pride' 
and  affection,  it  is  partly  on  account  of  his  cosmopolitan 
tone  of  mind — a  Duality,  among  others,  in  which  he 
greatly  resembles  Goldsmith.  It  is,  indeed,  worthy  of  a 
true  American  writer  that,  with  his  own  country  and  a 
particular  region  thereof  as  a  nucleus  of  his  sentiment,  ho 
can  see  and  feel  the  characteristic  and  the  beautiful,  not 
only  .in  old  England,  but  in  romantic  Spain ;  that  the 
phlegmatic  Dutchman  and  the  mercurial  southern  Euro 
pean  find  an  equal  place  in  his  comprehensive  glance. 


.;    IUVING.  47 

To  range  from  tho  local  wit  of  Salmagundi  to  the  grand 
and  serious  historical  enterprise  which  achieved  a  elastic 
Life  of  Columbus,  and  from  tin*  simple  grief  embalmed 
in  the  "Widow's  Boa"  to  the  observant  humor  of  the 
44  Stout  Gentleman,"  bespeaks .  not  only  an  artist  of  exqui 
site  and  versatile  skill,  but  a  man  of  the  most  liberal 
heart  and  catholic  taste. 

Reputations,  in  their  degree  and  kind,  are  as  legitimate 
subjects  of  taste  as  less  abstract  things,  —  ami  in  that  of 
Washington  Irving  there  is  a  completeness  and  unity  sel 
dom  realised.  It  accords,  in  its  unchallenged  purity,  with 
the  harmonious  character  of  the  author  and  the  serene 
attractions  of  his  home.  By  temperament  and  cast  of 
mind  he  was  ordained  to  be  a  gentle  minister  at  the  altar 
of  literature,  an  interpreter  of  the  latent  music  of  nature 
and  the  redeeming  affections  of  humanity ;  and,  with  a 
consistency  not  less  dictated  by  good  sense  than  true  feel 
ing,  he  has  instinctively  adhered  to  the  sphere  ho  was 
specially  gifted  to  adorn.  Since  his  advent  as  a  writer,  an  . 
intense  style  has  come  into  vogue,  glowing  rhetoric,  bold 
wrbal  tactics,  and  a  more  powerful  exercise  of  thought 
characterize  many  of  the  popular  authors  of  the  day ;  but 
in  literature  as  in  life,  there  are  various  provinces  both 
of  utility  and  taste ;  arid  in  this  country  and  age,  a  conser 
vative  tone,  a  reliance  on  the  kindly  emotions  and  the  refin 
ed  .perceptions,  are  qualities  eminently  desirable.  There 
fore  as  we  look  forth  upon  the  calm  and  picturesque 
landscape  that  environs  him,  we  are  content  that  no  fierce 
polemic,  visionary  philanthropist,  or  morbid  sentimentalist 
has  thus  linked  his  name  with  the  tranquil  beauties  of 


48  HOME8    OF    AM  Kit  1C  AN    AUTHORS. 

tho  scene;  but  that  it  is  the  homo  of  an  author  who,  with 
graceful  diction  ami  an  aft'octionatu  In-art,  celebrated  the 
scenic  charms  of  the  outward  world  and  the*  harmless 
eccentricities  and  natural  sentiment  of  his  race.  The  true 
bias  of  Irving's  genius  is  artistic.  The  lights  and  shadows 
of  English  life,  the  legendary  romance  of  Spain,  the  novel 
ties  of  a  tour  on  the  Prairies  of  the  AVcst,  and  of  adventures 
in  the  Iloeky  Mountains,  the  poetic  beauty  of  the  .Alham- 
bra,  the  memories  of  Abbotsford  and  Xcwstead  Abbey,  the 
(piaint  and  comfortable  philosophy  of  the  Dutch  coKmUta, 
and  the  scenery  of  the  Hudson,  are  themes  upon  which 
he  expatiates  with  the  grace  and  /est  of  a  muster.  His 
ailinity  of  style  with  the  classic  British  essayists  served 
not  only  as  an  invaluable  precedent  in  view  of  the  crude  •* 
mode  of  expression  prevalent  half  a  century  ago  among  us, 
but  also  proved  a  bond  in  letters  between  our  own  coun 
try  and  England,  by  recalling  the  identity  of  language  and 
domestic  life,  at  a  time  when  great  asperity  of  feeling 
divided  the  two  countries. 

The  circumstances  of  our  daily  life  and  the  impulse  of  our 
national  destiny,  amply  insure  the  circulation  of  progressive 
and  practical  ideas ;  but  there  is  little  in  either  to  sustain  a 
wholesome  attachment  to  the  past,  or  inspire  disinterested 
feeling  and.  imaginative  recreation.  Accordingly,  we  rejoice 
that  our  literary  pioneer  is  not  only  an  artist  of  the  beautiful, 
but  one  whose  pencil  is  dipped  in  the  mellow  tints  of  legend 
ary  lore,  who  infuses  the  element  of  repose  and  the  sportive- 
ness  of  fancy  into  his  creations,  and  thus  yields  genuine  re 
freshment  and  a  needed  lesson  to  the  fevered  minds  of  his 
countrymen.  Of  all  his  immortal  pictures,  however,  tho 


I  H  V  I  X  «.  40 

most  precious  to  hit)  countrymen  is  that  which  contains  tho 
hoiiso  of  old  HaltuH  Van  Ta^sell,  especially  ninee  it  has  been 
relitted  and  ornamented  by  (teoil'rey  Crayon  ;  and  pleasant 
as  it  is  to  their  imagination  as  Wolfort'd  Roost,  it  in  far  more 
dear  to  their  hearts  as  Sunny  side. 

And  the  legends  which  he  has  KO  gracefully  woven  around 
every  htriking  point  in  the  scene,  readily  a->imilate  with  its 
character,  whether  they  breathe  grotesque  humor,  harmless, 
superstition, or  pensive  sentiment.     AVe  smile  habitually,  anil 
with  tho  same  zest,  at  the  idea  of  the  Trumpeter's  rubicund 
proboscis,  the  valiant  defence  of  Beam  Island,  and  the  figure 
which  the  pedagogue  cuts  on  the  dorsal  ridge  of  old  <  Junpow-* 
der;  and,  inhaling  the  magnetic  atmosphere  of  Sleepy  Hol 
low,  we  easily  give  credit  to  the  apparition  of  the  Headless 


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50  lluMKS    OF    AMK  11  1C  AN     A  U  T  II  O  Jt  S. 

Horseman,  and  luivo  no  desire  to  repudiate  the  frisking  imps 
of  the  Duy  vel'ii  Dans  Kainer.  The  buxom  charms  of  Katrina 
Van  Tassel,  and  the  substantial  comforts  of  her  paternal  farm 
house,  are  as  tempting  to  us  as  they  once  were  to  the  unfor 
tunate  Ichabod  .and  the  successful  Hrom  Bones. 

The  mansion  of  this  prosperous  and  valiant  family,  so  often 
celebrated  in  his  writings,  is  the  residence  of  Washington 
Irving.  It  is  approached  by  a  sequestered  road,  which  en 
hances  the  effect  of  its  natural  beauty.  A  more  trampiil  and 
protected  abode,  nestled  in  the  lap  of  nature,  never  captivated 
a  poet's  eye.  Itising  from  the  bank  of  the  river,  which  a  strip 
of  woodland  alone  intercepts,  it  unites  every  rural  charm  to 
Hie  most  complete  seclusion.  From  this  interesting  domain 
is  visible  the  broad  surface  of  the  Tappan  Zee  ;  the  grounds 
slope  to  the  water's  edge,  and  arc  bordered  by  wooded  ravines ; 
a  clear  brook  ripples  near,  and  several  neat  paths  lead  tofhad- 
owy  walks  or  fine  points  of  river  scenery.  The  house  itself  is 
a  graceful  combination  of  the  Knglish  cottage  and  the  .Dutch 
farm-house.  The  crow-stepped  gables,  the  tiles  in  the  hall, 
and  the  weathercocks,  partake  of  the  latter  character;  while 
the  white  walls  gleaming  through  the  trees,  the  smooth  and 
verdant  turf,  and  the  mantling  vines  of  ivy  and  clambering 
roses,  suggest  the  former.  Indeed,  in  this  delightful  home 
stead  are  tokens  of  all  that  is  most  characteristic  of  its 
owner.  The  simplicity  and  rustic  grace  of  the  abode  indi 
cate  an  unpervertcd  taste, —  its  secluded  position  a  love  of 
retirement ;  the  cottage  ornaments  remind  us  of  his  unri 
valled  pictures  of  English  country-life;  the  weathercock 
that  used  to  veer  about  on  the  Stadt-house  of  Amsterdam, 
is  a  symbol  of  the  fatherland;  while  the  one  that  adorned 


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I  R  V  1  X  G.  51 

the  grand  dwellings  in  Albany  before  the  revolution,  is  a 
significant  memorial  of  the  old  Dutch  colonists;  and  they 
arc  thus  both  associated  with  the  fragrant  memory  of  that 
famous  and  unique  historian  Diedrich  Knickerbocker.  The 
quaint  and  the  beautiful  are  thus  blended,  and  the  effect  of 
the  whole  is  singularly  harmonious.  From  the  quietude  of 
this  retreat  are  obtainable  the  most  extensive  prospects ; 
jind  while  its  sheltered  position  breathes  the  very  air  of 
domestic  repose,  the  scenery  it  commands  is  eloquent  of 
broad  and  generous  sympathies. 

Not  less  rare  than  beautiful  is  the  lot  of  the  author,  to 
whom  it  is  permitted  to  gather  up  the  memorials  of  his  fame 
and  witness  their  permanent  recognition; — the  lirst  partial 
favor  of  his  cotemporaries  renewed  by  the  mature  apprecia 
turn  of  another  generation;  and  equally  gratifying  is  the  co- 
•  incidence  of  nuch  a  noble  satisfaction  with  a  return  to  the 
cherished  and  picturesque  haunts  of  childhood  and  youth. 
It  is  a  pluiM)  of  life  scarcely  h«.-s  delightful  to  contemplate 
than  to  enjoy;  ami  we  agree  with  a  native  artist  who  de 
clared  that  in  his  many  trips  up' and  down  the  Hudson,  he 
never  parsed  Sunnyside  without  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  Nor,  if 
thus  interesting  even  as  an  object  in. the  landscape,  is  it  dilli- 
cult  to  •imagine  what  moral  attractions  it  possesses  to  the  kin 
dred  and  friends  who  there  habitually  enjoy  such  genial  com- 
paninnship  and  frank  hospitality.  To  this  favored  spot,  around 
which  his  fondest  reminiscences  hovered  during  a  long  ab 
sence,  Mr.  Irving  returned,  a  few  years  since,  crowned  with 
the  purest  literary  renown,  and  as  much  attached  to  his  na 
tive  scenery  as  when  he  wandered  there  in  the  holiday  rever- 
ied  of  boyhood.'  And  here,  in  the  midst  of  a  landscape  hie 


52  HOMES    OF    AMKltlCAN.  AUTHOUS. 

IH-II  has  made  attractive  in  both  hemispheres,  and  of  friends 
whose  love  surpasses  the  highest  meed  of  fame,  he  lives  in 
daily  view  of  scenes  thrice  endeared — by  taste,  association, 
and  habit; — the  old  locust  that  blossoms  on  the  green  bank 
in  spring,  the  brook  that  sparkles  along  the  grass,  the  peaked 
turret  and  vine-covered  wall  of  that  modest  yet  traditional 
dwelling,  the  favorite  valley  watered  by  the  romantic  Pocan 
toro,  and,  above  all,  .the  glorious  river  of  his  heart. 

AVe  are  strongly  tempted  to  record  some  of  the  charming 
anecdotes  which  fall  from  his  lips  in  the  hour  of  genial  com 
panionship;  to  revert  to  the  details  of  his  personal  career; 
the  remarkable  coincidences  by  which  he  became  a  spec 
tator  of  some  of  the  most  noted  occurrences  of  the  last,  hall 
century;  —  his    personal    intercourse    with    the   gifted   and 
renowned  of  both  hemispheres;  the  fond  admiration  mani 
fested   by  his  countrymen  in  making  his  name  familiar  as 
a  household  word,  on  their  ships  and  steamers,  their  schools, 
hotels  and  townships;  the  beautiful  features  of  his  domestic 
life  ;   the  affectionate  reverence  with  which  he  is  regarded 
by  his  relatives  and  his  immediate  friends  and  neighbors;  — 
the  refined  yet.  joyous  tone  of  his  truly  "Sunnyside"  hospi 
talities,  KO  charmingly  enlivened,  by  his  humorous  and  his 
torical  reminiscences.     'Hut  two  considerations  warn  us  from 
these  seductive  topics  —  the  one  a  cherished  hope  that  the 
reminiscences  thus  briefly  alluded  to  may  yet  bo  gathered 
up  by  his  own  hand  ;  the  other  our  knowledge  of  his  delicacy 
of  feeling  and  sensitive  habit  in  regard  to  personalities.     In 
a  letter  to  the  editor  of  the  "Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  !Mr. 
Irving,  uiiiler  the  character  of 'Geoffrey  Crayon,  gives  an 
account  of  his  purchase;  of  the  Van  Tassel  estate,  now  called 


1 11  V  I  N  G.  53 

"  Suimyside,"  and  a  characteristic  description  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  which  abounds  in  sonic  of  the  happiest  touches  of 
his  style.  This  letter  was  the  commencement  of  a  series  of 
Articles  published  in  the  Knickerbocker,  which,  excepting 
his  u  Life  of  Goldsmith,"  are  the  last  of  his  published  writ 
ings.  It  appeared  in  the  Knickerbocker  for  March,  1830, 
from  which  we  extract  it. 


"  To  the  Editor  of  the  Ktiickcrbixker. 

uSiu:  I  have  observed  that  as  a  man  advances  in  life,  lie 
is  subject  to  a  kind  of  plethora  of  the  mind,  doubtless  occa 
sioned  by  the  vast  accumulation  of  wisdom  and  experience 
upon  the  brain.  Hence  he  is  apt  to  become  narrative  and 
admonitory,  that  is  to  say,  fond  of  telling  long  stories,  and 
of  doling  out  advice,  to  the  small  profit  and  great  annoyance 
of  his  friends.  As  I  have  a  great  horror  of  becoming  the 
oracle,  or,  more  technically  speaking,  the  *boiv*  of  the  do 
mestic  circle,  and  would  much  rather  bestow  my  wi.-dom 
and  tediousness  upon  the  world  at  large,  I  have  always 
sought  to  ease  otf  this  surcharge  of  the  intellect  by  mean.- 
of  my  pen,  and  hence  have  inflicted  divers  gossipping  vol 
umes  upon  the  patience  of  the  public.  I  am  tired,  ho\\v\vr, 
of  writing  volumes  ;  they  do  not  afford  exactly  the  relief  1 
require  ;  there  is  too  much  preparation,  arrangement,  and 
parade,  in  this  set  form  of  coming  before  the  public.  I  am 
growing  too  indolent  and  unambitious  for  any  thing  .that 
requires  labor  or  display.  I  have  thought,  therefore,  of 
.He-curing  to  myself  a  snug  corner  in  Home  periodical  work, 
where  I  might,  as  it  were,  loll  at  my  ease  in  my  elbow  chair, 


. 

54  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    A  U  T  II  0  It  3. 

and  chat  sociably  with  the  public,  as  with  an  old  friend,  on 
any  chance  subject  that  might  pop  into  my  brain. 

"In  looking  around,  for  this  purpose,  upon  the  various 
excellent  periodicals  with  which  our  country  abounds,  my 
eye  was  struck  by  the  title  of  your  work  —  'Tin:  KNICKUU- 
BOCKttu,'  My  heart  leaped  at  the  sight. 

"  DiKmtiru  KNICKKUUOCKKK,  Sir,  was  one  of  my  earliest 
and  most  valued  friends,  and  the  recollection  of  him  is  asso 
ciated  with  some  of  the  plcasantcst  scenes  of  my  youthful 
days.  To  explain  this,  and  to  show  how  I  came  into  posses 
sion  of  sundry  of  his  posthumous  works,  which  I  have  from 
time  to  time  given  to  the  world,  permit  me  to  relate  a  few 
particulars  of  our  early  intercourse.  I  give  them  with  the 
more  confidence,  as  I  know  the  interest  you  take  in  that 
departed  worthy,  whose  name  and  elligy  are  stamped  upon 
your  title-page,  and  as  they  will  be  found  important  to  the 
better  understanding  and  relishing  divers  communications  I 
may  have  to  make  to  you. 

".My  first  acquaintance  with  that  great  and  good  man,  for 
such  I  may  venture  to  call  him,  now  that  the  lapse  of  some 
thirty  years  has  shrouded  his  name  with  venerable  antiquity, 
and  the  popular  voice  has  elevated  him  to  the  rank  of  flu* 
classical  historians  of  yore,  my  iirst  acquaintance  with  him 
was  formed  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  not  far  from  the 
wizard  region  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  lie  had  come  there  in 
the  course  of  his  researches  among  the  Dutch  neighborhoods 
for  materials  for  his  immortal  history.  For  this  purpose,  he 
was  ransacking  the  archives  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
•historical  mansions  in  the  country.  It  was  a  lowly  edifice, 
built  in  the 'time  of  tlic  Dutch  dynasty,  and  stood  on  a  green 


IRVING.  55 

bank,  overshadowed  by  trees,  from  which  it  peeped  forth 
,  upon  the  Great  Tappau  Zee,  so  famous  among  early  Butch 
navigators.  A  bright  pure  spring  welled  up  at  the  foot  of 
the  green  bank ;  a  wild  brook  came  babbling  down  a  neigh 
boring  ravine,  and  threw  itself  into  a  little  woody  cove,  in 
front  of  the  mansion.  It  was  indeed  as  quiet  and  sheltered  a 
nook  as  the  heart  of  man  could  require,  in  which  to  take 
.refuge  from  the  cares  and  troubles  of  the  world;  and  as 
such,  it  had  been  chosen  in  old  times,  by  AVrolfcrt  Acker,  one 
of  the  privy  councillors  of  the  renowned  Peter  Stuyvesant. 

"This  worthy  but  ill-starred  man  had  lead  a  weary  and 
worried  life,  throughout  the  stormy  reign  of  the  chivalric 
Peter,  being  one  of  those  unlucky  wights  with  whom  the 
'  world  is  ever  at  variance,  and  who  are  kept  in  a  continual 
fume  and  fret,  by  the  wickedness  of  mankind.     At  the  time 
of  the  subjugation  of  the  province  by  the  English,  he  retired 
hither  in  high  dudgeon;  with  the  bitter  determination  to 
bury  himself  from  the  world,  and  live  here  in  peace  and 
quietness  for  the  remainder  of  his  days.     In  token  of  this 
lixed   resolution,  he   inscribed   over   his   door   the   favnrito 
Dutch  motto,   'Lust  in  Kust'  (pleasure   in   repose).     The 
mansion    was    thence    called    *  Wolfe rt's   Kust'-  -  Wolfcrt's 
Rest ;  but  in  process  of  time,  the  name  was  vitiated  into 
i     Woltcrt'a  Uoost,  probably  from  its  quaint  cock-loll  look,  or 
from  its  having   a  weather-cock  perched   on  every   gable. 
This  name  it  continued  to  bear,  long  after  the  unlucky  Wol- 
fort  was  driven  forth  once  more  upon  a  wrangling  world,  by 
the  tongue  of  a  termagant  wife;  for  it  passed  into  a  proverb 
through  the  neighborhood,  and  has  been  handed  down  by 


56  HOMES    OF    AMERIOAN 

tradition,  that  the  cock  of  the  Iloost  waa  tho  most  hen 
pecked  bird  in  the  country. 

"This  primitive  and  historical  mansion  has  long  since 
passed  through  many  changes.  At  the  time  of  the  sojourn 
of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  it  was  in  possession  of  the  gal 
lant  family  of  the  Van  Tassels,  who  have  figured  so  con 
spicuously  in  his  writings.  What  appears  to  have  given  it 
peculiar  value,  in  his  eyes,  was  the  rich  treasury  of  historical 
facts  here  secretly  hoarded  up,  like  buried  gold;  for  it  is 
said  that  Wolfcrt  Acker,  when  he  retreated  from  New  Am 
sterdam,  carried  oil*  with  him  many  of  the  records  and 
journals  of  the  province,  pertaining  to  the  Dutch  dynasty; 
swearing  that  they  should  never  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
English.  These,  like  the  lost  books  of  Livy,  had  baflled  the 
research. of  former  historians;  but  these  did  I  iind  the  inde 
fatigable  Diedrich  diligently  deciphering.  He  was  already 
a  sage  in  years  and  experience,  I  but  an  idle  stripling;  yet 
he  did  not  despise  my  youth  and  ignorance,  but  took  me 
kindly  by  the  hand,  and  led  me  gently  into  those  paths  ot 
local  and  traditional  lore  which  he  was  so  fond  of  exploring. 
I  sat  with  him  in  his  little  chamber  at  the  Iloost,  and 
watched  the  antiquarian  patience  and  perseverance  with 
which  he  deciphered  those  venerable  Dutch  documents," 
worse  than  llcrculaneum  manuscripts.  1  sat  with  him  by 
the  spring,  at  the  foot  of  the  green  bank,  and  listened  to  hi* 
heroic  tales  about  the  worthies  of  tho  olden  time,  tho  pahi.- 
dins  of  New  Amsterdam.  I  accompanied  him  in  his  legend 
ary  researches  about  Tarrytown  and  Sing-Sing,  ami  explored 
with  him  the  spell-bound  recesses  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  1  wa$ 
present  ut  many  of  his  conferences  with  the  good  old  Dutch 


IRVING.  57 

burghers  and  their  wives,  from  whom  ho  derivtnl  many  of 
Uiose  marvellous  facts  not  laid  down  iu  hooks  or  records,  and 
which  give  such  superior  /alue  and  authenticity  to  his  his 
tory,  over  all  others  that  have  been  written  concerning  the 
New  Netherlands. 

"  But  let  me  check  my  proneness  to  dilate  upon  this  fa 
vorite  theme  ;  I  may  recur  to  it  hereafter.  Sutlice  it  to  say, 
the  intimacy  thus  formed,  continued  for  a  considerable  time; 
and  in  company  with  the  worthy  Died  rich,  I  visited  many  of 
the  places  celebrated  by  his  pen.  The  currents  of  our  lives 
at  length  diverged.  lie  remained  at  home  to  complete  his 
mighty  work,  while  a  vagrant  fancy  led  me  to  wander  about 
the  world.  Many,  many  years  elapsed,  before  L  returned  to 
the  parent  soil.  In  the  interim,  the  venerable  historian  of 
the  New  Netherlands  had  been  gathered  to  his  fathers,  but 
his  name  has  risen  to  renown.  11  is  native  city,  that  city  in 
which  he  so  much  delighted,  had  decreed  all  manner  of 
o*tly  honors  to  his  memory.  I  found  his  ettigy  imprinted 
upon  new-year  cakes,  and  devoured  with  eager  relish  by 
holiday  urchins;  a  great  oyster-house  bore  the  name  of 
l'  Knickerbocker  Hall ;"  and  I  narrowly  escaped  the  pleas 
ure  of  beintr  run  over  by  a  Knickerbocker  omnibus! 

«. 

•*  Proud  of  bavin"  associated  with  a  man  who  had  achiev- 

c5 

ed  such  greatness,  I  now  recalled  our  early  intimacy  with 
tenfold  pleasure,  and  sought  to  revisit  the  scenes  we  had 
trodden  together.  The  most  important  of  these  was  the  man 
sion  of  the  Van  Tassels,  the  Itoost  of  the  unfortunate  Wolfert, 
Time,  which  changes  all  things,  is  but  slow  in  its  operation-, 
upon  a  Dutchman's  dwelling.  I  found  the  venerable  and 
quaint  little  cdiiice  much  as  J  had  seen  it  during  the  sojourn 


58  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

of  Diedrich.  There  btood  his  elbow-chair  iu  the  corner  of  the 
room  he  had  occupied  ;  the  old-fashioned  Dutch  writing-do.sk 
at  which  lie  hud  pored  over  the  chronicles  of  the  Manhattoes ; 

there  was  the  old  wooden  client,  with  the  archives  left  by 
Wolfert  Acker,  many  of  which,  however,  had  been  iired  off 
us  wadding  from  the  long  duck  gun  of  the  Van  Tassels, 
The  scene  around  the  mansion  was  still  the  name;  the  green 
"bank ;  the  Hpring  beside  which  1  had  listened  to  the  legendary 
narratives  of  the  historian  ;  the  wild  brook  babbling  down  to 
the  woody  cove,  and  the  overshadowing  locust  trees,  half 
shutting  out  the  prospect  of  the  Great  Tappaii  Zee. 

"  As  I  looked  round  upon  the  scene,  my  heart  yearned  at 
the  recollection  of  my  departed  friend,  and  1  wistfully  eyed 
the  mansion  which  he  had  inhabited,  and  which  was  fast 
mouldering  to  decay.  The  thought  struck  me  to  arrest  the 
desolating  hand  of  Time  ;  to  rescue  the  historic  pile  from 
utter  ruin,  and  to  make  it  the  closing  scene  of  my  wanderings  ; 
a  quiet  home,  where  I  might  enjoy  4lust  in  rust'  for  the  re 
mainder  of  my  days.  It  is  true,  the  fate  of  the  unlucky  Wol- 
fert  passed  across  my  mind  ;  but  I  consoled  myself  with  the 
reflection  that  I  was  a  bachelor,  and  that  I  had  no  termagant 
wife  to  dispute  the  sovereignty  of  the  Uoost  with  me. 

*4  [have  become  possessor  of  the  Koost!  I  have  repaired 
and  renovated  it  with  religious  care,  in  the  genuine  Dutch 
style,  and  have  adorned  and  illustrated  it  with  sundry  re 
lumes  of  the  glorious  days  of  the  New  Netherlands.  A 
venerable  weather-cock,  of  portly  Dutch  dimensions,  which 
once  battled  with  the  wind  on  the  top  of  the  Stadt-IIouse  of 
New  Amsterdam,  in  the  time  of  lYterStuyvesant,  now  erects 
its  crest  on  the  g&ble  end  of  my  edifice ;  a  gilded  horse,  in 


i  n  v  i  x  o.  59 

full  gallop,  once  the  weather-cock  of  the  great  Yandcr  lley- 
flou  Palace  of  Albany,  now  glitters  in  tho  sunshine,  and 
veers  with  every  breeze,  on  the  peaked  turret  over  my  portal: 
my  sanctum  sanctorum  is  the  chamber  ok^o  honored  by  the 
illustrious  Diedrich,  and  it  is  from  his  elboxfchair,  and  his 
identical  old  Dutch  writing-desk,  that  I  pen  this  rambling 
epistle. 

."  If  ore,  then,  have  I  set  up  my  rest,  surrounded  by  tin- , 
recollection  of  early  days,  and  the  mementos  of  the  historian 
of  the  Munhattocs,  with  that  glorious  river  before  me,  which 
llo'ws  with  such  majesty  through  his  works,  and -which  has 
ever  been  to  me  a  river  of  delight. 

i4I  thank  God  I  was  born  on  the  banks,  of  the  Hudson  ! 
I  think  it  an  invaluable  advantage  to  be  born  and  brought 
up  in  the  neighborhood  of  some  grand  and  noble  object  in 
nature;  a  river,  a  lake,  or  a  mountain.  Wo  make  a  friend 
ship  with  it,  we  in  a  manner  ally  ourselves  to  it  for  life.  It 
remains  an  object  of  our  pride  and  affections,  a  rallying 
point,  to  call  us  home  again  a  ft  or  all  our  wanderings.  'The 
things  which  we  have  learned  in  our  childhood,'  says  an  old 
writer,  'grow  up  with  our  souls,  and  unite  themselves  to  it." 
So  it  is  with  the  scenes  among  which  we  have  passed  our 
early  days';  they  influence  the  whole  course 'of  our  thoughts 
and  feelings;  and  1  fancy  I  can  trace  much  of  what  is  good 
and  pleasjint  in  my  own  heterogeneous  compound,  to  my 
early  companionship  with  this  glorious  river.  Jn  the  warmth 
of  my  yquthful  enthusiasm,  I  used  to  clothe  it  with  mural 
attributes,  and  almost  to  give  it  a  soul.  I  admired  its  frank, 
bold,,  honest  character;  its  noble  sincerity  and  perfect  truth. 
Here  was  no  Bpecious,  smiling  surface,  covering  the  danger- 


fll)  lluMKS    OF    AM  £1(1.0  AN    A  IT  T  11  O  K  ». 

oim  sand-bar  or  perfidious  rock  ;  but  a  -t  ream  deep  us  it  was 
broad,  and  bearing  with  honorable  faith  the  bark  that  trusted 
to  its  waves.  I  gloried  in  its  simple,  quiet,  majestic,  epic 
How;  ever  straight  forward.  Once  indeed,  it  turns  aside  for 
a  moment,  forced  from  its  course  by  opposing  mountains,  but 
it  struggles  bravely  through  them,  and  immediately  resume^ 
its  straightforward  march.  Behold,  thought  I,  an  emblem  of 
?i  good  man's  course  through  life;  ever  simple,  open,  and 
direct;  or  if,  overpowered  by  adverse  circumstances,  he  de 
viate  into  error,  it  is  but  momentary ;  lie  soon  recovers  his 
onward  and  honorable  career,  and  continues  it  to  the  end  of 
Ms  pilgrimage. 

"  Kxcuse  this  rhapsody,  into  which  I  have  been  betrayed 
by  a  revival  of  early  feelings.  The  Hudson  is,  in  a  manner, 
.my  iirst  and  last  love;  and  after  all  my  wanderings,  and 
teeming  infidelities,  I  return  to  it  with  a  heart-felt  preference 
over  all  the  other  rivers  in  the  world.  1  seem  to  catch  new 
ife,  as  I  bathe  in  its  ample  billows,  and  inhale  the  pure 
breezes  of  its  hills.  It  is  true  the  romance  of  youth  is  pa>t, 
that  once  spread  illusions  over  every  scene.  I  can  no  longer 
picture  an  Arcadia  in  every  green  valley;  nor  a  fairy  land 
among  the  distant  mountains;  nor  a  peerless  beauty  in  every 
villa  gleaming  among  the  trees;  but  though  the  illusions  of 
youth  have  faded  from  the  landscape,  the  recollections  of  de 
parted  years  and  departed  pleasures  shed  over  it  the  mellow 
charm  of  evening  sunshine. 

"Permit  me  then,  Mr,  Editor,  through  the  medium  of 
your  work,  to  hold  occasional  discourse  from  my  retreat,  with 
the  busy  world  I  have  abandoned.  I  have  much  to  say  about 
what  I  have  seen,  heard,  felt,  and  thought,  through  the 


v 


i  n  VINO. 


61 


c«mrso  of  a  varied  and  rambling  life,  and  Borne  lucubrations, 
that  have,  long  boon  encumbering  my  port-folio;  together 
with  divers  reminiscences  of  tlio  venerable  historian  of  the 
Now  Netherlands,  that  may  not  bo  unacceptable  to  those 
who  have  taken  an  interest  in  his  writings,  and  are  drsiroud 
of  anything'  that  may  cast  a  light :  baek  upon  our  early  his- 
t« TV.  Let  your  readers  rest  assured  of  ono  thing,  that,  though 
retired  from,  the  world,  I  am  not  disgusted  with  it;  and  that 
if,  in  my  communing*  with  it,  I  do  not  prove  very  wise,  I 
trust  I  shall  at  least  prove  very  good-natured. 
Which  is  all  at  present,  from 

Yourri,  etc., 

GKOFFKEY  CRAYON.'. 


Jc'lillum  (Lulltu 


£*£  K®!^b-^?Sr5*?^^*!? ' 

....--• 

•     ;  *%wfe  £$fe^ 

»«fia:£»^*-    •  "«.sY«ilVv  •     .^' 


BRYANT. 


TF  ever  there  were  poet  of  whom  it  is  not  necessary  to  ask 
*-  whether  ho  lives  in  town  or  country,  it  is  Mr.  Bryant. 
N»»t  even  Burns  gives  mure  unmistakable  signs  of  the  inspi 
ration  of  rural  nights  and  sounds.  "Winds  breathe  soft  or 
loud;  suiiidiino  or  shadow  Hits  over  the  landscape;  leaves 
rn-tle  and  birds  niug,  .whorover  his  verses  are  read. 


over  our  heads  becomes  a  forest,  with  green  boughs 
waving  ;  the  carpet  turns  to  fivsh  grans,  and  the  air  we 
breathe  is  moist  and  fragrant  with  mosses  and  hidden 

'  5 


60  HOMES    OF    AMElilCAN    AUTHOK8. 

streams.  No  need  of  currying  the  book  out  of  doors  to 
aid  the  illusion  ;  its  own  magic  is  irresistible,  and  brings 
out-of-doors  wherever  it  goes.  Here  is  a  mind  whose 

Ku|>turo!t  in-    not  conjured  up 
To  IMTVG  iK'fUftioa  (»f  |>o(4ic  jioiii|», 
Hut 


and  such  as  could  not  be  excited  or  satisfied  with  pictures 
of  what  it  loves.  All  is  consistent,  therefore,  when  we  iind 
the  poet's  home  a  great,  old-time  mansion,  so  embosomed 
in,  trees  and  vines  that  we  can  hardly  catch  satisfactory 
glimpses  of  the  bay  on  which  it  'lies,  through  the  leafy 
windows,  of  which  an  overhanging  roof  prolongs  the  shade. 
No  greener,  quieter  or  more  purely  simple  retreat  can  be 
found;  none  with  which  the  owner  and  his  tastes  and  oecu- 
1  pations  are  more  in  keeping.  It  would  be  absurd  to  saV 
that  all  appearance  of  show  or  style  is  carefully  avoided  ; 
for  it  requires  very  little  observation  to  perceive  that  these 
are  absent  from  the  place  simply  because  they  never  entered 
its  master's  mind.  1  suppose  if  any  thing  could  completely 
disgnst  Mr.  Bryant  with  this  beloved  home,  it  would  be  the 
addition  of  any  outward  costliness,  or  even  elegance,  calcu 
lated  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  passing  stranger. 
Friend  Hi  chard  Kirk  — a  Quaker. 'of  the  Quakers,  if  he 
may  be  judged  by  his  works  —  little  thought,  when  he 
built  this  great,  ample,  square  dwelling-place,  in  the  lap 
of  the  hills,  in  17S7,  that  he  was  fashioning  the  house  of 
a  poet  —  one  worthy  to.be  u spared  when  temple  and  tower 
went  to  the  ground,"  because  it  is  the  sanctuary  of  a  priest 
of  Nature.  Whether  any 


B  K  Y  A  N  T.  67 

('u|iUiin,  or  colonel,  or  knight  in  arms 

(lid  spare  it  from  a  prophetic  insight  into  iU  destination,  we 
cannot  tell ;  but  thero  was  wild  work  in  its  vicinity,  and 
stories  of  outrages  perpetrated  by  "cow-boys"  and  other 
desperadoes  are  still  fresh  in  old  families.  The  wide  region 
still  called  Ilcmpstead  was  then  inhabited  for  tho  mo>t 
part  by  loyalists,  devoutly  attached  to  the  parent  govern 
ment,  and  solicitous,  by  means  of  town  meetings  passing 
loyal  resolutions,  and  conventions  denouncing  tho  spirit  of 
rebellion  against  "  his  most  gracious  majesty  King  George 
the  Third,"  to  put  down  the  dangerous  agitation  that  began 
to*  threaten  "our  civil  and  religious  liberties,  which  can  only 
lie  secured  by  our  present  constitution  ;"— and  this  north 
ern  part  of  the  township,  in  particular,  held  many  worthy 
eiti/.ens  who  felt  it  their  duty  to  resist  to  the  last  the  unhal 
lowed  desire  of  the  people  to  govern  themselves.  In  Sep 
tember,  1775,  an  oilicial  reports  that  "without  the  a^i>tance 
of  Col.  hasher's  battalion"  he  "shall  not  lie  able,  in  Jamaica 
and  llempstead,  to  carry  the  resolutions  of  Congress  into 
execution,"  as  "the  people  conceal  all  their  arms  that  are  of 
any  value."  The  disaffection  of  the  district  was  considered 
important  enough  to  justify  a  special  commission  from  Con 
gress,  then  sitting  at  Philadelphia,  requiring  the  resistant* 
to  deliver  their  arms  and  ammunition  on  oath,  as  persons 
."incapable  of  resolving  to  live  and  die  freemen,  and  more 
disposed  to  quit  their  liberties  than  part  with  the  small  por 
tion  of  their  property  that  may  be  necessary  to  defend  them.'1 
This  seems  to  have  had  the  desired  effect,  for  the  people  not 
only  brought  in  their  arms,  but  were  "much  irritated  with 


s 


#6  UOMES    0V    AMKKICAN    AUTIIOUS. 

those  who  had  led  -them  to  iiiukc  opposition,11— says  a  con 
temporary  letter.  The  lovers  of  pence  and  plenty,  rather 
than  commotion  and  scanty  harvests,  were,  however,  still  so 
numerous  in  Queen's  county,  that  on  the  21st  of  October. 
I77o*,  ahout  thirteen  hundred  freeholders  presented  a  most 
liuiuhle  petition  to  Lord  I  To  we,  entreating  that  he  would 
"declare  the  county  in  the  peace  of  His  Majesty,"  and  de 
nouncing  "the  infatuated  conduct  of  the  Congress,"  as  hav 
ing  "blasted  their  hopes  of  returning  peace  and  Hccurify." 
Among  the  names  appended  to  this  petition  we  find  that  of 
Richard  Kirk  —  a  lover  of  comfort,  doubtless,  like  his  breth 
ren  in  general,  —  and  who,  when  once  the  drum  had  ceased 
to  outrage  the  mild  echoes  of  that  Quaker  region,  returned 
to  his  farming  or  his  merchandise,  and  in  due  season,  being 
prospered,  founded  the  substantial  dwelling  now  known  as 
Spring  Dank,  destined  to  last  far  into  the  timo  of  freedom 
and  safety,  and  to  prove,  in  these  latter  days,  fit  harbor  for 
a  poet  whose  sympathies  are  any  where  but  with  the  signers 
<»f  that  humble  petition. 

The  house  stands  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill,  which  shel 
ters  it  on  the  east,  facing  Ilempstead  harbor,  to  which  the 
tlood  tide  gives  the  appearance  of  a  lake,  bordered  to  its 
very  edge  with  trees,  through  which,  at  intervals,  are  seen 
farmhouses  and  cottages,  and  all  that  brings  to  mind  that 
beautiful  image,  ''a  smiling  land."  The  position  is  well 
chosen,  and  it  is  enhanced  in  beauty  by  a  small  artificial 
pond,  collected  from  the  springs  with  which  the  hill  abounds, 
and  lying  between  the  house  and  the  edge  of  the  harbor, 
from  which  it  is  divided  by  an  irregular  embankment, 
atfording  room  for  a  plantation  of  shade-trees  and  iine 


. 


•     - 

• 

. 

.  - 
.. 

• 

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$81 


•       "-T>*<V;v'. 


r- 
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\  IL      »Y   »<3ft" 

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. 


B  It  Y  A  N  T.  60 

shrubbery.  Here  again  Friend  Richard  was  doing  what 
ho  little  thought  of;  tor  his  only  intention  was  to  build  a 
paper-mill  —  one  of  the  earliest  in  the  United  States,  whose 
wheel  for  many  a  year  furnished  employment  to  the  outlet 
of  the  pond.  'The  mill  was  burnt  once  and  again  —  by  way 
of  hint,  perhaps,  that  beauty  is  use  enough;  —  and  the  vis 
itor  cannot  but  hope*  it  will  never  be  rebuilt. 

The  village  at  the  head  of  the  harbor  was  long  called 
North  Hemps tcad,  but  as  there  were  already  quite  llcmp- 
steads  enough  in  Queen's  county  to  perplex  future  Topogra 
phers,  the  inhabitants  united  in  desiring  a  more  distinctive 
title,  and  applied  to  Mr.  Bryant  for  his  aid  in  choosing  one. 
Tliis  is  not  so  easy  a  matter  as  it  seems  at  iir>t  glance;  and1 
in  defect  of  all  express  guidance  in  the  history  of  the  spot, 
and  desiring,  too,  a  juune  at  once  musical  in  itself  and  agree 
able  in  its  associations,  Mr.  Uryant  proposed  Roslyn, —  the 
town  annals  declaring  that  when  the  British  evacuated  the 
inland  in  17*1,  "The  Sixtieth,  or  Royal  American  IJcgiiuent, 
marched  out  of  llempstead  to  the  tune  of  Ru.-lvn  Castle.'* 
The  name  is  not  too  romantic  for  the  place,  for  a  inore  irreg 
ular,  picturesque  cluster  of  houses  can  hardly  be  found  — 
perched  here  and  there  on  the  hillsides,  embowered  in  foli 
age,  and  looking  down  upon  a  chain  of  pretty  little  lake-, 
on  the  outlet  of  which,  overhanging  the  upper  point  of  the 
harbor,  is  an  old-fashioned  mill,  with  its  pretty  rural  acces 
sories.  One  can  hardly  believe  this  a  bit  of  Long  Island, 
which  is  by  no  means  famed  lor  romantic  scenery. 

After  Richard  Kirk's  time,  other  Quakers  in  sucet  — i..n 
became  proprietors  of  the  great  farmhouse  and  the  little 
[taper-mill,  but  at  length  were  purchased  by  Joseph  AV. 


. 

70  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN     AUTHORS. 

Moulton,  Esq.,  author  of  a  history  of  New- York,  who,  not 
relishing  the  plainness  of  (lie  original  style,  surrounded  the 
house  with  square  columns  and  a  heavy  cornice.  These  help 
to  shade  a  wide  and  ample  piazza,  shut  in  still  more  cloM'lv 
hy  tall  trees  and  clustering  vines,  so  that  from  within  the 
house  is  one  bower  of  greenery,  and  the  hottest  sun  of  July 
eaves  the  ample  hall  and  large  rooms  cool  and  comfortable 
at  all  times. 

The  library  occupies  the  northwest  corner  —  that  which 
in  our  artist's  sketch  appears  at  the  left  —  and  we  need 
hardly  say  that  of  all  the  house  this  is  the  most  attractive 
spot  —  not  only  because,  besides  ample  store  of  books,  it  is 
supplied  with  all  that  can  minister  to  quiet  and  'refined 
pleasure  —  but  because  it  is,  JHH*  r.ivv/A'mv  —  the  haunt  of 
the  poet  and  his  friends.  Here,  by  the  great  table  covered 
with  periodicals  and  literary  novelties,  with  the  soft,  cease 
less  music  of  rustling  leaves,  and  the  singing  of  birds  mak 
ing  the  silence  sweeter,  the  summer  visitor  may  fancy  him 
self  in  the  very  woods,  only  with  a  deeper  and  more  grateful 
.shade;  and  "when  wintry  blasts  are  piping  loud"  and  the 
whispering  leaves  have  changed  to  whirling  ones,  a  bright 
wood-tire  lights  the  home-scene,  enhanced  in  comfort  by  the 
inhospitable  sky  without ;  and  the  domestic  lamp  calls  about 
it  a  smiling  or  musing  circle,  for  whose  conversation  or  silence 
the  shelves  around  atford  excellent  material.  The  collection 
of  books  is  not  large,  but  widely  various  ;  Mr.  Bryant's  tastes 
and  pursuits  leading  him  through  the  entire  range  of  litera 
ture,  from  the  Fathers  to  Shelley,  and  from  Courier  to  .lean- 
Paul.  In  (Jerman,  French  and  Spanish,  he  is  a  proficient, 
and  Italian  he  reads  with  ease ;  so  all  these  languages  are 


DRY  ANT.  71 

well  represented  in  the  library,  lie  turns  naturally  from 
the  driest  treatise  on  politics  or  political  economy,  to  the 
wildest  romance  or  the  most  tender  poem  —  happy  in  a 
power  of  enjoying  all  that  genius  has  created  or  industry 
achieved  in  literature. 

The  library  has  not,  however,  power  to  keep  Mr.  JJryant 
from  the  fields,  in  which  he  seeks  health  and  pleasure  a 
large  part  of  every  day  that  his  editorial  duties  allow  him 
to  pass  at  home.  To  explore  his  farm,  entering  into  the 
minutest  details  of  its  cultivation  ;  to  thread  the  beautiful 
woodland .  hill  back  of  the  house,  making  winding  path.- 
and  shady  scuts  to  overlook  the  water  or  command  the 
dUtuut  prospect ;  to  labor  in  the  garden  with  the  perse- 
-  verance  of  an  enthusiast  —  these  ought  perhaps  to  be  called 
1  his  favorite  occupations  ;  for  as  literature  has  been  the  busi 
ness  of  his  life,  these  out-door  pleasures  have  all  the  charm 
of  contract  together  with  that  of  relaxation.  It  is  under  the 
open  *ky,  and  engaged  in  rural  matters,  that  Mr.  IJryant  is 
seen  to  advantage,  that  is,  in  his  true  character.  It  is  here 
that  the  amenity  and  natural  sweetness  of  disposition,  some 
times  clouded  by  the  cares  of  life  and  the  untoward  circum 
stances  of  business  intercourse,  shine  gently  forth  under  the 
influences  of  Nature,  so  dear  to  the  heart  and  tranquillizing 
to  the  spirits  of  her  child.  Here  the  eye  puts  on  its  deeper 
and  softer  lustre,  and  the  voice  modulates  itself  to  the  tone 
of  affection,  sympathy,  enjoyment.  Little  children  clu.-ter 
about  the  grave  man's  steps,  or  climb  his  shoulders  in  tri 
umph;  and  userenest  eyes"  meet  his  in  fullest  confidence, 
finding  there  none  of  the  sternness  of  which  euMial  observer* 
sometimes  complain.  It  seems  almost  a  pity  that  other  walk* 


72  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTJIOKS. 

should  over  draw  him  hence ;  but  perhaps  the  contrast  be 
tween  garden  walks  and  city  pavements  is  required  for  the    < 
perfection,  and  durability  of  rural  pleasures. 

There  can  hardly  be  found  a  man  who  lias  tried  active 
life  for  titty  years,  yet  preserved  HO  entire  and  resolute  a 
simplicity  of  character  and  habits  as  Mr.  Bryant.  No  one 
can  be  less  a  man  of  the  world  —  so  far  as  that  term  ex 
presses  a  worldly  man  —  in  spite  of  a  largo  share  of  foreign 
travel,  and  extensive  intercourse  with  society.  A  disposition 
somewhat  exclusive,  and  a  power  of  living  self-inclosed  at 
will,  may  account  in  part  for  the  total  failure  of  politic*, 
society  or  ambition,  to  introduce  any  thing  artificial  upon  a 
character  enabled  by  natural  courage  to  face  opposition,  and  . 
by  inherent  self-respect  to  adhere  to  individual  tastes  in  spite 
of  fashion  or  convention.  And  the  simplicity  which  is  the 
result  of  high  cultivation  is  so  much  more  potent  than  that 
which  arises  only  from  ignorance,  that  it  may  be  doubted 
whether,  if  Mr.  Bryant  had  never  left  his  native  village  of 
Cummington,  in  the  heart  of  Massachusetts,  he  would  have 
been  as  free  from  all  sophistication  of  taste  and  manners  as 
at  present.  It  is  with  no  sentimental  aim  that  we  call  him 
the  child  of  Nature,  but  because  he  is  one  of  the  few  who, 
by  their  docility  and  devotion,  show  that  they  are  not  asham 
ed  of  the  great  mother,  or  .desirous  to  exchange  her  rule  for 
something  more  fashionable  or  popular. 

Thi)  father  of  Mr.  Bryant  was  a  man  of  taste  and  learn 
ing — a  physician  and  an  habitual  student;  and  his  mother- 
not  to  discredit  the  general  law  which  gives  able  mothers  to 
eminent  men  —  was  a  woman  of  excellent  understanding  and 
high  character,  remarkable  tor  judgment  and  decision  as  for  ; 


BRYANT.  73 

faithfulness  to  her  domestic  duties.  And  here,  in  this  little 
Hampshire  village  of  Cummiugton,-— where  William  Cullen 
1  fry  ant  was  born  in  1701,  —  he  began  at  ten  years  of  age  to 
write  verses,  which  were  printed  in  the  Northampton  news 
paper  of  that  day  —  the  Hampshire  Gazette.  A  year  earlier 
h<;  had  written  rhymes,  which  his  father  criticised  and  taught 
him  to  correct. 

Precocity  like  this  too  often  disappoints  its  admirers,  but 
Bryant  went  on  without  faltering,  and  at  fourteen  wrote  a 
satirical  poem  called  the  Embargo,  which  is,  perhaps,  one 
of  the  most  wonderful  performances  of  the  kind  on  record. 
We  know  of  nothing  to  compare  with  it  except  the  achieve 
ments  of  Chatterton. 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  lines  : 

•'  K'on  while  I  sing,  »ee  Faction  urge  her  claim, 
Mi-led  with  fal.-ehood,  ami  with  zeal  intlame ; 
Lift  her  Mack  banner,  spread  her  empire  wide, 
Ami  .-t.ilk  triumphant  with  a  Fury's  stride. 
Site  blows  her  braze  1 1  trump,  and,  at  the  sound, 
A  motley  throng,  obedient,  floek  around  ; 
A  mi.st  of  changing  hue  o'er  all  ehe  tlin^, 
And  darkness  perches  on  her  dragon  win^iti 

"  < ',  might  bonio  patriot  ri^e!  the  gloom  dirtjM:), 
Clia.-(>  I'-in-r'a  mist,  and  break  her  magic  tpell ! 
l>i.t  vain  the  \\i-h,  for,  hark!  the  murmuring  meed 
Of  ht'iUM-  aj'jiliiUM-  from  yonder  .-h«-d  proceed  ; 
Knter,  and  view  the  thronging  concourse  ther<», 
Intent,  with  gaping  mouth  and  stupid  stare ; 
While.,  in  lli"  n.i.l-i,  their  aupple  leader  -t.ih.l-, 
Harangue*  aloud,  and  (UturUlu'fl  hi.i  hands; 
To  adulation  tune<t  hi*  servile  throat. 
And  Hllen,  bUceef*>ful,  for  eaeh  blockhead'*  Vote." 


74       HOMES  OF  AMERICAN  AUTUOHS. 

This  poem  was  published,  in  company  with  a  few  shorter 
ones,  at  Boston,  in  1808.  Two  years  afterwards  the  author 
entered  Williams  College,  a  sophomore,  and  greatly '(list  in* 
guished  himself  during  two  years,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
he  obtained  an  honorable  discharge,  intending  to  complete 
his  education  at  Yale  — a  design  which  was,  however,  never 
carried  into  effect,  lie  htndied  law,  first  with  Judge  Jlowe, 
of  Washington,  afterwards  with  Mr.  William  Baylies,  of 
Bridgc'watcr,  and  in  ltflf>  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Ply 
mouth,  lie  practised  law  a  single  year  at  Plainfield,  near 
his  native  place,  and  then  removed  to  (ireat  Barrington,  in 
Berkshire,  where,  in  1S:M,  he  married  Miss  Frances  Fuir- 
child  —  whose  portrait  is  exquisitely  shadowed  forth  —  to 
those  who  know  her — in  that  tenderest,  most  domestic, 
and  most  personal  poem  that  Bryant  ever  wrote  — u  The 
Future  Life."  In  the  whole  range 'of  Kugli.^h  literature 
there  can  hardly  be  found  so  delicate  and  touching  a  tribute 
to  feminine  excellence  —  a  husband's  testimony  alter  twenty 
years  of  married  life,  not  exempt  from  tuils  and  trials. 

The  poem  of  Thanatopsis  was  written  in  1812,  when  the 
writer  was  eighteen4>and  we  have  heard  a  family  friend  say 
that  when  Dr.  Bryant  showed  a  copy  to  a  lady  well  qualified 
to  judge  of  such  things,  saying  simply  —  "  Here  are  some 
lines  that  .our  William  has  been  writing,"  — the  lady  read 
the  poem  —  raised  her  eyes  to  the  father's  face,  and  burst 
into  tears  —  in  which  that  father,  a  somewhat  stern  and 
bilcnt  man  —  was  not  ashamed  to  join.  And  no  wonder! 
It  must  have  seemed  a  mystery,  as  well' as  a  joy,  that  in  a 
quiet  country  life,  in  the  bosom  of  eighteen,  had  grown  up 
thoughts  that  even  in  boyhood  shaped  themselves  into  sol- 


BRYANT.  .      75 

enin  harmonies,  majestic  as  the  diapason  of  ocean,  fit  for 
a  temple-service  beneath  the  vault  of  heaven. 

The  jiociu  of  the  Water  Fowl  was  written  two  yean* 
after,  while  Mr.  Bryant  was  reading  law  at  Bridgewater. 
These  verses,  which  are  in  tone  only  loss  solemn  than  the 
Thanatopsis,  while  they  show  a  graphic  power  truly  remark- 
aide,  were  suggested  by  the  actual  n'ght  of  a  solitary  water-  ' 
fowl,  btcadily  living  towards  the  northwest  at  sunset,  in  .a 
brightly  illumined  sky.  They  were  published,  with  Thana- 
t ops. is  and  the  Inscription  lor  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood,  in 
the  North  American  Ueview  of  the  year  1M«J. 

In  ISi'l  Mr.  Bryant  delivered  the  poem  called  "The 
Ages,"  before  the  1'hi  Beta  Kappa  Society  at  Cambridge. 
At  the  Migge.-tion  of  his  friends,  it  was  published  the  same 
year,  at  Cambridge,  together  with  the  three  poems  just  men 
tioned,  and  a  very  few  others,  among  which  was  that  called 
Green  liiver,  which  he  had  a  short  time  before  contributed 
to  the  Idle  Mali,  then  in  course  of  publication  by  his  friend 
Dana, 

la  1>^4  M»\  Bryant  wrote  a  considerable  number  of 
papers  for  the  Literary  Gazette,  published  in  Boston ;  and 
in  lM'5,  by  the  advice,  of  his  excellent  and  lamented  friend, 
^  Henry  1).  Sedgwick,  he  removed  to  New-York,  ami  became 
•  •lie  of  the  editors  of  the  New-York' Review,  in  conjunction 
with  Henry  James  Anderson.  At  the  end  of  six  months 
this  gentleman,  between  whom  and  Mr.  Bryant  there  has 
ever  nincc  subsisted  a  strong  friendship,  was  appointed  l*r«>- 
fe.-sor  of  Mathematics  in  Columbia  College,  and  liohert  C. 
Sands  tmik  his  place  a.-»  as>ociate  editor  of  the  lievicw.  This 
I ie view,  however,  wai  not  destined  to  a.-»  long  a  life  as  it 


70  HOMES    OF    AMEIUCAN    AUTHORS. 

deserved  —  the  lite  of  Keviews  a*  well  as  of  men  depending 
u  I  HI;  A  multitude  of  contingencies  —  and  ut  the  end  of  the 
year  Mr.  IJryant  was  engaged  av>  an  as.*i»tant  editor  of  the 
Evening  Post.  The  next  year  he  became  one  of  the  propri 
etors  of  that  paper,  and  lias  so  continued  ever  since. 

In  IrtJT,  ami  the  two  years  next  (succeeding,  he  found 
time  to  contribute  a  considerable  share  of  the  matter  of  an 
annual  of  superior  character,  called  the  Tali.-man,  the  whole 
of  which  was  written  by  three  persons  —  Sands,  Verplanck. 
and  liryant.  He  also  furnished  several  stories  fora  publi- 
cation  called  **  Talcs  of  the  Cilaiiber  Spa,"  published  by  the 
Harpers.  The  other  writers  were  Mi.-s  Sedgwick,  Panlding, 
Sands,  Verplanck  and  Leggett.  Mr.  Uryant's  contributing 
were  "The  Skeleton's  Cave"  and  ••  Medlield." 

The  first  general  collection  of  his  works  Mas  in  Ivi:.', 
when  he  gave  to  the  world  in  one  volume  all  the  poems  he 
was  willing  to  acknowledge.  His  publisher  was  Mr.  Khun 
lUis-,  now  no  more,  a  man  of  whose  sterling  goodness  Mr. 
Bryant  loves  to  speak,  as  eminent  for  exemplary  liberality 
in  dealings,  and  for  a  mo?t  kind  and  generous  disj»o$ition. 
It  was  for  him  that  the  Talisman  was  written. 

In  ls;U  Mr.  Bryant  sailed  with  his  family  for  Kiiroju-, 
leaving  the  Evening  Post  in  the  charge  of  his  friend  Leg 
gett.  His  residence  abroad  was  mostly  in  Italy  and  (Jer- 
manv,  both  i»f  which  countries  he  found  t»»t>  interesting  for 
a  mere  glance.  Here  the  pleasure  and  improvement  of 
himself  and  his  family  would  have  detained  him  full  three 
vi-ars  —  the  allotted  period  of  his  sojourn  abroad  —  buf  news 
of  Mr.  Lcggetfs  illness  and  of  gome  disadvantage  ari>iug 
from  it  in  the  atfairs  of  the  paper,  compelled  him  to  return 


BRYANT.  77 

homo  suddenly  in  183U,  leaving  his  family  to  follow  at  more 
leisure  under  the  care  of  Air.  Longfellow,  who  hud  been 
uhroud  at  the  eainu  time.  The  business  aspect  of  the  IVt 
was  unpromising  enough  at  this  juncture,  but  sound  judg 
ment  and  patient  labor  succeeded,  in  time,  in  restoring  it  to 
the  prosperous  condition  which  it  has  enjoyed  for  half  a 
century , 

In  184*3  appeared  ''The  Fountain  and  other  Poems," 
gravely  sweet,  like  their  predecessors,  and  breathing  of  Na 
ture  and  green  fields,  in  spite  of  editorial  and  pecuniary  cares. 
In  1843  Mr.  Bryant  refreshed  himself  by  a  visit  to  the  South 
ern  States,  and  pa>scd  a  fe\y  weeks  in  East  Florida.  The 
•'  White  Footed  Deer,"  with  several  other  poems,  was  pub- 
lifhed  a  year  after.  In  1S4,">  Air.  Bryant  visited  England, 
Scotland,  and  the  Shetland  Isles,  f»»r  the  first  time;  and  dur- 
.  ing  the  next  year  u  new  collection  was  made  of  his  poems, 
with  the  outward  garnish  of  mechanical  elegance,  and  also 
numerous  illustrations  by  Leutze.  This  edition,  published  at 
Philadelphia,  is  enriched  with  a  beautiful  portrait  by  Che 
ney —  the  best,  in  our  opinion,  ever  yet  published.  This 
graceful  and  delicate  head,  with  its  tine,  classic  outline,  in' 
which  taste  and  sensitiveness  are  legible  at  a  glance,  has  a 
singular  resemblance  to  the  engraved  portraits  of  Rubens 
taken  in  a  half  Spanish  hat  of  wavy  outline,  such  as  Mr. 
Bryant  is  fond  of  wearing  in  his  wood-raj nbles.  Add  the 
hat  to  this  exquisite  miniature  of  Cheney's,  and  we  have 
Jvubens  complete — an  odd  enough  resemblance,  when  we 
contrast  the  productions  of  the  painter  and  the 'poet. 

Only  one  still  more  characteristic  and  perfect  likeness  oi' 
Bryant  exists  —  the  full-length  in  Durand's  picture  of  the 


V 
78  UOMK8    OF    AMKUICAN    AUTHOltrf. 

poet  standing  with  hU  friend  Colo — tlio  eminent  land 
scape-painter —  among  tho  Cut nk ill  woods  and  waterfalls. 
This  i>icture  is  particularly  to  be  prized,  not  only  tor  tho 
sweetness  and  truth  of  its  general  execution,  but  because,  it 
gives  us  the  poet  and  the  painter  where  they  loved  best  to 
be,  and  just  as  they  were  when  under  tho  genial  influence 
and  in  the  complete  ease  of  such  Keener.  Such  pictures  are 
halt'  biographies. 

In  1848  Cole  died,  and  Mr.  Bryant,  from  a  full  heart, 
pronounced  his  funeral  oration.  Friendship  is  truly  the 
wine  of  the  poet's  life,  and  Colo  was  a  beloved  friend.  If 
Mr.  Bryant  ever  appears  stern  or  indiilercnt,  it  is  not  when 
speaking  or  thinking  of  the  loved  and  lost.  Xo  man  ehooses 
'his  friends  more  carefully  —  none  prizes  them  dearer  or  values 
their  hociety  more  —  none  does  them  more  generous  and  del 
icate  justice*.  Such  attachment  cannot  atford  to  be  indis 
criminate. 

March,  1849,  saw  Mr.  Bryant  in  Cuba,  and  in  the  sum 
mer  of  the  same  year  he  visited  Europe  for  the  third  time. 
The  letters  written  during  his  various  journeys  and  voyages 
were  collected  and  published  in  the  year  1850,  by  Mr.  Put 
nam,  a  volume  embodying  a  vast  amount  of  practical  and 
poetic  thought,  expressed  with  the  united  modesty  and  good 
sense  that  so  eminently  characterize  every  production  of  Mr. 
Bryant;  —  not  a  superfluous  word,- — not  an  empty  or  a  showy 
remark.  .As  a  writer  of  pure,  manly,  straightforward  English, 
Mr.  Bryant  has  few  equals  and  no  superiors  among  us. 

In  the  beginning  of  1852,  on  the  occasion  of  the  public 
commemoration  held  in  honor  of  the  genius  and  worth  of 
•lames  Fenimoni  Cooper,  and  in  view  of  a  monument  to  be 


B  U  Y  A  N  T.  70 

erected  in  New-York  to  that  great  American  novelist,  Mr. 
Bryant  pronounced  a  Discourse  on  his  Life  and  Writing, 
marked  by  the  warmest  appreciation  of  his  claims  to  the 
remembrance  and  -gratitude  of  his  country.  Some  even  of 
Air.  Cooper's  admirers  ohjet-Jed  that  tho  poet  had  assigned 
a  higher  niche  to  his  old  friend  than  the  next  century  will 
be  willing  to  award  him ;  if  it  be  so,  perhaps  the  peculiarly 
manly  and  bold  character  of  Cooper's  mind  gave  him  an 
unsuspected  advantage  in  Mr.  liryarit's  estimation,  lie 
looked  upon  him,  it  may  be,  as  a  rock  of  truth  and  cour 
age-  in  the  midst  of  a  fluctuating  sea  of  "  dillctautism "  and 
time-serving,  and  valued  him  with  unconscious  reference  to 
this  particular  quality,  so  rare  and  precious.  l>ut  the  dis 
course  was  an  elegant  production,  and  a  new  proof  of  the 
generosity  with  which  Mr.  ISryant,  who  never  courts  praise, 
is  disposed  to  accord  it. 

Mr,  Uryant's  habits  of  life  have  a  smack  of  asceticism, 
although  he  is  the  disciple  of  none  of  the  popular  schools 
which,  under  various  forms,  claim  to  rule  the  present  world 
in  that  direction.  Milk  is  more  familiar  to  his  lips  than 
wine,  yet  he  does  not  disdain  the %"  cheerful  hour"  over 
which  moderation  presides.  lie  eats  sparingly  of  animal 
food,  but  he  is  by  no  means  afraid  to  enjoy  roast  goose  lest 
he  should  outrage  the  manes  of  his  ancestors,  like  some 
modern  enthusiasts.  *  He  " hears  no  music"  if  it  be  fantas 
tical,  yet  his  ear  is  iinely  attuned  to  the  varied  harmonies 
of  wood  and  wave.  His  health  is  delicate,  yet  he  is  almost 
never  ill ;  his  life  laborious,  yet  carefully  guarded  against 
excessive  and  exhausting  fatigue.  He  is  a  man  of  rule,  but 
none  the  less  tolerant  of  want  of  method  in  others ;  strictly 


80  HOMES    OF     AM  Kit  1C  AN    AUTHO11S. 

Bel  (-governed,  but  not  prone  to  censure  the  unwary  or  the 
weak-willed.  In  religion  he  is  at  once  catholic  and  devout, 
and  to'  moral  excellence  no  noul  bows  lower.  Placable  we 
can  perhaps  hardly  call  him,  for  impressions  on  his  mind 
are  almost  indelible  ;  but  it  may  with  the  strictest  truth  be 
said,  that  it  requires  a  great  oifenec,  or  a  great  unworthiness, 
to  make  an  enemy  of  him,  ;«o  strong  is  his  sense  of  justice. 
Not  amid  the  bustle  and  dust  of  the  political  arena,  cased 
in  armor  offensive  and  defensive,  is  a  champion's  more  inti 
mate  self  to  be  estimated,  but  in  the  pavilion  or  the  bower, 
where,  in  robes  of  ease,  and  with  all  professional  ferocity 
laid  aside,  we  see  his  natural  form  and  complexion;  and 
hear  in  placid  domestic  tones  the  voice  so  lately  thundering 
above  the  light.  So  we  willingly  follow  .Mr.  Jlryant  to  Jtos- 
lyn  ;  see  him  musing  on  the  pivtty  rural  bridge  that  spans 
the  fish-pond ;  or  taking  the  oar  in  his  daughter's  fairy  boat; 
or  pruning  Lid  trees  ;  or  talking  over  farming  matters  with 
his  neighbors;  or  —  to  return  to  the  spot  whence  we  set  out 
some  time  ago  —  sitting  calm  ami  happy  in  that  pleasant 
library,  surrounded  by  the  friends  he  loves  to  draw  about 
him,  or  listening  to  the  prattle  of  infant  voices,  quite  as 
much  at  home  tliere  as  under  their  own  more  especial 
roof — his  daughter's,  within  the  same  inclosure. 

In  person  Mr.  Itryant.  is  tall  and  Blender,  Symmetrical 
and  well-poised  ;  in  carriage  eminently  1irm  and  self-pos 
sessed.  Ho  is  fond  of  long  rural  walks  and  of  gymnastic 
exercises  —  on  all  which  his  health  depends.  Poetical  com 
position  tries  luin  severely  — so. severely  that  his  efforts  «»f 
that  kind  are  necessarily  rare.  His  are  no  holiday-verses  ; 
and  those  who  urge  his  producing  a  long  poem  are,  perhaps, 


BUY  ANT.  61 

that  he  should,  in  gratifying  their  admiration, 
luiiUl  for  himself  a  monument  in  which  lie  would  he  sclt'- 
'•nvcloped.  Let  us  rather  content  ourselves  with  asking  "  a 
few  more  of  the  same,"  esj)ecially  of  the  later  poems,  in 
which,  certainly,  the  poet  trusts  his  fellows  with  a  nearer 
and  more  intimate  view  of  his  inner  and  peculiar  self  than 
was  his  wont  in  earlier  times.  Let  him  more  and  more  give 
a  human  voice  to  woods  and  waters ;  and,  in  acting  as  the 
accepted  interpreter  of  Nature,  speak  fearlessly  to  the  heart 
as  well  as  to  the  eye.  His  countrymen  were  never  more  dis 
posed  to  hear  him  with  delight;  lor  since  the  public  demand 
lor  his  poems  has  placed  a  copy  in  every  house  in  the  land, 
the  taste  for  them  has  steadily  increased,  and  the  national 
pride  in  the  writer's  genius  become  a  generous  enthusia>m, 
which  is  ready  to  grant  him  an  apotheosis  while  he  lives. 


BANCttOFT, 


Indians  culled  the  finest  of  New  Knglund  rivers, 
Connecticut,  lliver  of  Pines.  The  {summer  tourist  to 
the  White  Mountain*,  ascending  or  descending  its  valley, 
ilnds  little  reason  t'm:  the  name  remaining,  until  he  reaches 
it>  upper  nhores,  where  occasional  groves  of  j>ines  remind 
him  of  the  name  and  its  bigmiieanee,  A  hroad,  tranquil 
stream,  it  lliws  through  much  of  the  most  characteristic 
si-t'iKTv  of  tlu^  Northern  States,  from  out  the  "crystal" 
hills," — from  the  shadow  of  Agioeochook,  "throne  of  tho 
( i resit  Spirit,"  as  the  Indians  called  Mount  Washington, 
dividing  New  Hampshire  from  Vermont,  the  granite  from 
the  #recn,  —  beneath  graceful  Ascutney  Mountain  at  Wind 
sor,  through  wide-waving  grain-fields,  foaming  over  the 
rocks  in  its  bole  important  cascade  at  JJellnws  Falls,  then 
into  a  broader  and  more  open  landscape  as  it  crosses 
Massachusetts,  making  at  Northampton  its  famous  bend  — 
.the  (Jreat  Ox-bow.  At  Springfield  the  railways  from  every 
quarter  meet  upon  its  banks,  and  its  calm  breadth  here, 


- 

80       HOMES  OF  AM  KH I  CAN  AUTHORS. 

with  the  low  clustering  foliage  of  its  shores,  and  the  bold 
cliff  of  Mount  Tom  glimmering  in  the  hazy  noon,  which 
is  the  hour  of  arrival  at  Springfield,  gives  the  tone  to 
tho  day's  impression,  The  traveller  southward  follow* 
the  stream  toward  Hartford  and  New  Haven;. the  north 
ern  traveller  clings^to  its  shore  until  he  reaches  North 
ampton. 

Lying  in  the  heart  of  Massachusetts,  Northampton  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  country  towns.  Looking  over 
a  quiet  and  richly  cultivated  landscape,  the  view  from 
Mount  Holyokc  is  of  the  same  quality  as  that  from  Kieh- 
HI-MI. 1  Hill,  in  Knghiwl,  (ientle  green  hills,  fair  and  fer 
tile  meadows,  watered  by  the  Kiver  of  Pines.  That  river 
id  not  classic  Thames,  and  no  grotesque  Strawberry  Hill 
nor  historic  Ilampden  Court,  no  Pope's  Villa  at  Twicken 
ham  nor  btately  Hushy  Park,  tell  tales  to  the  musing  eye 
of  the  singularly  artificial  and  amusing  lite  which  is  so 
strangely  and  intimately  associated  with  the  graceful  Kug- 
lish  scene.  The  Kiver  of  Pines  laves  its  peaceful  Chores 
with  Indian  lore.  Terrible  traditions  of  the  lights  of  the 
early  settlers  of  New  England  haunt  the  stream.  Historic 
life  in  its  neighborhood  is  not  old  enough  to  be  artificial, 
Like  much  of  our  pastoral  scenery,  which  seems  the  natural 
theatre  of  tranquil  life  and  a  long  Arcadian  antiquity,  the 
landscape  of  the  Connecticut,  so  far  as-  it  is  suggestive, 
reminds  the  observer  only  of  the  dull  monotony  of  savage 
existence;  but, —  irresistibly  as  the  stream  flows  to  the 
seaj  —  bears  imagination  forward  to  the  history  that  shall 
be.  Alone  of  all  scenery  in  the  world,  the  Americoji 
landscape  points  to  the  future.  The  best  charm  of  the 


B  A  X  0  H  O  F  T.  8T 

European  niul  Asian  lies  much  in  its  reference  t«>  the  past 
Human  interest  invests  it  all. 

"Th«  mountain*  look  oil  Marathon, 
.  An. I  Marathon  Imtka  uu  tho  »«»a,N 

I  Jut  that  sea  is  not  only  a  sublime  waste  of  waters,  with  the 
ii  herent  character  of  every  grand  natural  feature,  but  it 
teems  and  sparkles  all  over  with  another  spell.  Ami  this 
charm  is  undeniable.  The  pass  of  Leouidas  is  more  interest 
ing  than  the  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains,  because  man  Is 
the  muster  of  nature,  and  wherever  human  character  ha** 
entwined  itself  with  natural  beauty,  it  becomes  an  insepar 
able  element  of  enjoyment  in  the  scene,  and  an  element 
\Chich  enhances  the  dignity  of  the  landscape.  Thus  in  Con 
cord,  the  spot  upon  the  river's  bank  where  the  battle  was 
fought,  is  lovely  and  tranquil,  but  how  much  lovelier  —  not 
as  water  and  foliage,  but  as  feeling  and  inspiration,  which' 
is  the  immortal  beauty  of  landscape  —  fur  the  remembrance 
of  the  human  valor  which  consecrates  it,  and  its  significance 
and  results. 

No  man,  of  course,  grieves  that  American  scenery  is  not 
generally  invested  with  this  character.  Horn  upon  this 
superb  continent,  heaped  at  intervals  with  the  inarticulate 
mounds  of  extinct  races,  yet  races  which  have  left  no  his 
toric!  trace,  and  can  never  be  more  than  romantically  inter 
esting,  we  are  fed  upon  tho  literature  and  history  of  the 
world.  The  grandeur  of  Egypt,  the  grace  of  Greece,  the 
herui>m  of  Rome,  are  all  ours,  and  the  lands  illustrated  by 
that  various  character  do  not  fail  to  fascinate  us.  ]>ut  at 
present,  our  landscape  is  not  unlike  the  Indian  himself.  It 


88  HOMES    OF    AMKUICAN     AUTHOHB. 

•  ' 

in  grand  but  feilont ;  or  eloquent  only  with  speechless  iinpli  - 
caii<»ii.  Foreign  critics  complain  that  wo  art)  enamored  «>!' 
foreign  Bconory,  and  do  not  know  our  own  wraith.  Cut 
our  admiration  for  the  old  world  is  only  our  homage  to  that 
human  genius  which  hhall  make  our  own  story  as  -  plendid. 
Siring  what  it  ha*  ulriowliuru  done,  wo  perceive  more  truly 
what,  in  a  sphere  HO  stately  and  spacious,  it  will  yet  accom 
plish.  A (trceco  more  (Jrcek  and  a  more  Kuiuau  Komc,  is 
the  jumtdlili)  future  of  Auicriea,  Why  aro  they  so  jealous  of 
uur  delight  in  the  Parthenon-  in  tin-  Alj^  in  the 
pictures^  Shall  we  not  honor  the  llowering  <>!'  tlu^ 
that  ornamented  the  nld  lands  and  time-,  when  we  look  to 
its  future  hlos^oming  for  our  own  glory  t  We  pro.speetively 
honor  ourselves  in  respecting  the  old  world.  And  if,  some- 
time-,  the  youth  of  a  sensitive  and  delicate  temperament, 
fully  eapahlu  of  enjoying  to  the  utmost  the  resources,  of 
European  -life,  and  retjuiring  the  suc<-esses  of  art  and  the 
eonvi'iiienee*  of  an  old  civilization  for  the  happiest  play  of 
his  powers,  longs  tor  the  galleries,  the  Hocicticn,  the  historic 
shores,  it  may  well  he  pardoned  to  him,  in  consideration 
that  he  U  an  indication  of  our  capacity  tor  that  condition. 
lie  shows  what  we  shall  Iny  he  hhowd  that  not  only  the 
genius  (»f  creation,  hut  of  appreciation,  is  part  of  our  consti 
tution. 

When,  however,  this  peculiarity  takes  the  form  of  a  o^uer- 
ulous  fastidiousness,  and,  in  Broadway,  bighti  for  the  l>oule» 
vards,  and,  remembering  St.  Peter's,  sneers  at  the  Capitol,  it 
is  foolish  and  offensive.  Uut,  on  the  other  bund,  wo  shall 
not  necessarily  improve  our  nationality  by  perpetually  visit 
ing  Niagara  or  reading  Mr.  Schooleraft'a  Legends,  or  refus 


BAKCKOFT,  80 

injjf  ABHcnt  to  the  positive  uujwHoritiofl  of  other  countries  and 
times.  Essentially  eclectic  in  our  origin,  we  ttltall  ho  HO  in 
our  development,  Foreign  critic*  treat  us  a*  it'  wo  had  n«'»t 
a  eommmi  ancestry  with  them,  hut.  were  descended  from  the 
IndianH,  They  nay  to  IIH,~-  How  are  yon  over  to  have  a  tm 
tionality,  it'  yon  (h^crt  all  yonr  traditioiiH  aiul  oVvott?  your* 
sclvt'8  to  loving  and  imitating  KnrojKf  I  Tlu»  qilO^Hou  I'M  tair, 
hnt  tho  iinpl'u'ation  in  unjnKt.  They  tor^-t,  t>|Kvially  tin- 
l;n"'IMi  t'i'iltcs,  that  "in1  <liil\'ivmv  in  not  uh^lnto  and  lina), 
hnt  only  relative.  AVo  havo  tho  Hanio  hiMory  and 
with  iln'in.  Their  men  and  event*  aro  peculiarly  «mr  , 
that  is,  than  Italian  and  I'ata^onian  «'N»'i>^  and  mm,  and  onr 
literatnro,  whieh  they  HO  ohstreporotitdy  in-i-t  nuint  ho  na 
tional,  necessarily  has  a  family  likened  to  their  own,  Mai  A; 
of  our  hookn  imitate  Mmdi-li  hookri  just  an  they  imitate  each 
other.  The  roanon  in  in  tho  ronunon  lan^ua^o  and  tho  *tmi- 
larity  of  Iwihil  of  thought, 

Hut  no  ;\merican  need  trcmhlo  lest  tlu»- grandeur  of  hU 
country  should  fail  t»>  ho  oxprvHscd  in  Art  and  Literaturov 
Somo  llomor,  or  I'oet  ah»n^  whose  linen  .-hall  llush  and  roar 
our  houndlesH  sea;  Home .  l'lat«>,  or  Catholic  Philosopher,  in 
\\liM-t-  calm  wisdom  the  hreadth  of  a  continent  shall  repose; 
homo  arii-t,  who  shall  passionately  dash  upon  Immortal  can- 
van  the  fervor  of  our  tropics,  and  realize,  in  new  and  unim- 
a^inod  grace  tho  hints  of  forest  and  prairio  — those  must  all 
he,  or  tho  conditions  of  human  and  national  development  a« 
they  appear  in  history,  will  not  bo  fulfilled. 

(;crtainly>  looking  from  llolyoke,  no  man  grieved  that 
tho  Connecticut  is  not  tho  classic  Thames,  nor  that  the  (ireiit 
Ox-how  is  unadorned  by  Strawberry  Hill.  Nor  do  I  ,>up- 


00  HOMES    OF    A  M  K  It  1  C  A  N     A  U  T  II  O  K  3. 

pose  that  he  regrets  upon  the  lull  the  absence  of  the  dandiefe  ' 
who  composed  the  court  of  "the  first  gentleman  in  Europe," 
nor  that  of  the  Dutch  royalty  of  his  three  predecessors. 
Fortunately  fur  us,  this  law  of  association  works  both  way  A. 
Horace  Walpolo  in  the  country,  tormenting  it  with  his  fan 
tastic  fancies,  is  almost  as  incongruous  a  spectacle  as  Ueau 
\ash  by  the  seaside.  Iwt  it  is  the  glowing  line  of  history 
in  which  these  figures  are  insignificant,  that  imparts*  the 
charm.  The  elegance  of  extreme  refinement  marks  the  . 
pleasant  view  from  Richmond  Hill.  It  is  akin  in  impres 
sion  to  that  of  the  "  lovely  L<"ulou  ladies."  It  is  in  land 
scape  what  they  are  in  society,  imt  pastoral  peace  broods 
over  the  valley  of  the  1  liver  of  Pines.  Golden  plenty  waves 
in  its  meadows,  —  the  flowing  tresses  of  a  peasant,  Gentle 
mountains  undulate  around,  covered  with  green  woods.  A 
fresh  sweetness  and  virginal  purity  every  where  breathe  a 
benediction.  If  no  historic  heroism  inspires  the  mind  of 
the  spectator,  there  is  also  no  taint  of  sheer  artificiality, 
none  of  the  nameless  sadness  which  haunts  the  gallery  of 
King  Charles's  Beauties.  This  is  Nell  Uwyn,  the  ruddy 
orange-girl,  her  youth  and  heart  sweeter  than  the  fruit  she 
bore;  not  the  painted  and  brocaded  lady,  not  the  frail  but 
faithful  St.  Albans. 

Looking  from  the  piaxxa  of  this  house  at  Round  Hill,  the 
eye  grasps  grim  Monadnoc  at  the  north,  ami  the  Yankee  hills 
of  Connecticut,  made  poetic  by  distance.  A  tranquil  and 
friendly  landscape,  —  somewhat  lurid  in  our  early  history 
with  Indian  fires  and  desolations, — a  broad,  fair  river, — alto 
gether  a  tiiio  and  suggestive  emblem  of  our  condition  and 
resources,  it  is  pleasant  to  associate  with  Northampton  the 


BANCROFT.  01 

commencement  ot*  the  work  that  records  our  history  in  ». 
manner  which  secures  its  final  permanence.  It  is  fortunate 
that  it  was  written  now,  while  the  outlines  are  not  lost  in  the 
mist  of  antiquity,  and  by  one  who,  to  an  original,  clear  ami 
profound  perception  of  the  great  principles  which  appear  in 
the  development  of  the  race,  has  added  the  ripeness  of  rich 
scholarship,  long  foreign  residence,  and  that  invaluable  prac 
tical  acquaintance  with  men  and  atlairs,  which  has  made  hi.*, 
own  life  part  of  contemporary  history.  I'est  of  all  for  the 
purpose,  the  ineradicable  Americanism  of  the  historian  im 
parts  his  native  air  to  the  page.  It  is  not  only  a  History  of 
America,  it  is  an  American  History.  There  is  a  wild  vigor 
and  luxuriant  richness  in  its  style  of  treatment,  a  pnnid 
buoyancy  of  flow,  as  if  it  shared  the  energetic  career  of 
the  country  it  describes.  The  intellectual*  habit  evident 
throughout  is  precisely  that  required  of  a  historian,  not  so 
romantic  as  to  limit  the  story  to  a  sweet  and  captivating 
legend,  nor  so  academic  as  to  marshal  in  colorless  inures 
the  hosts  of  historic  facts.  It  has  no  withered,  schola-tic 
air.  The  historian  has  not  curiously  culled  flowers,  and 
«illered  them  to  us  pressed,— -but  with  generous  hands  lie 
gathers  all  the  bounties  of  the  Held  and  heaps  them  before 
us,  wet  with  morning  dew. 

Our  present  duty  is  not  with  the  work,  but  with  the  cir 
cumstances  which    the  work  has  made  interesting.      Horn 

rt 

near  Worcester,  ^jtffsachusetts,  Mr.  Bancroft  was  the  sJ»u 
of  the  Hev.  Aaron  Bancroft,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
Unitarian  divines  of  the  last  half  century.  In  his  house  the 
religion  learned  from  his  lips  by  his  children  was  of  that 
grave  and  humane  catholicity  which,  once  permeating  the 


U2  HOMEH    OF    A  ME  It  1C  AX     A  I?  T  HO  US. 

young  iniiul,  hwecteiis  the  man's  life  fur-  ever  after.  Free 
dom  of  inquiry,  —  the  Biipremest  liberty  of  moral  iuvestiga- 
tiou,  was  the  golden  rule  of  the  old  man's  lite.  "  Prove  all 
things,"  was  the  earnest  exhortation  of  his  preaching,  sure 
that  otherwise  there  would  he  little  good  to  hold  fast. 
When,  in  the  declining  years  of  his  life,  an  intellectual, 
and  moral  excitement,  known  as  Transcendentalism,  pre- 
v ailed  in  New  England,  and  many  good  men  of  his  own  . 
persuasion  fancied  that  the  Inundations  of  things  were  at 
last  succumbing,  the  old  clergyman  went  his  way  quite 
unperplcxed,  sympathized  with  the  spirit,  although  not 
with  the  result  of  the  investigation,  and  assured  hi* 
alarmed  friends  that  the  errors,  if  such  they  were,  would 
necessarily  pass,  and  that  all  grain  of  truth  grew  in 
husks. 

At  seventeen  years  of  age  our  historian  went  to  Ger- 
many  and  studied  at  Gottingen.  Like  all  ardent  and  seri 
ous  New  Kngland  youths,  his  interest  in  theological  specu 
lations  was  great,  and  he  often  preached  to  the  quiet  Ger 
man  country  congregations  around  Gottingen,  in  their  native 
tongue.  This  interest  was  the  puritanical  inheritance  of  his 
native  land.  The  small  towns  were  parishes,  and  the  minis 
ter  the  high  priest.  It  had  been  so  from  the  earliest  times, 
and  the  feeling  in  the  matter,  which  survived  until  a  quarr 
ter  of  a  century  since,  clearly  manifested  the  fact  that  tint 
emigration  of  the  pilgrims  and  the  .settlement  of  New  Kng 
land  was  a  religious  movement.-  Possibly,  seen  from  Gottin- 
gen,  the  theological  traditions  of  New  Kngland  might  loso 
some  of  their  awful  proportions.  In  the  pleasant  pulpits 
of  Boston  the  observer  miirht  not  alwavs  see  the  Cotton 


B  A  N  C  11  O  F  T.  9u 

Mathers,  and  other  clerical  JWnerges  of  the  older  day,  nor 
trace  iu  their  limpid  discourse  the  liery  torrent  ot'  Puritan 
preaching,  But  the  spirit*  of  inquiry  inculcated  hy  the 
father,  the  pastor  of  the  quiet  country  town,  was  sure  to 
preserve  the  inquirer -by  neither  exaggerating  nor  threaten 
ing.  The  young  man  pursued  his  studies  with  ardor,  in 
i- very  direction.'  His  peuotrant  mind,  contracting  the  Euro 
pean  habit  of  education  with  our  wwn,  perceived  where  ours 
tailed,  and  what  it.  was  ilcce^ary  to  do  to  elevate  our  stand 
ard  in  the  matter.  Of  singular  intellectual  ivstlessne*!*,  his 
mind  bounded  and  darted  through  the  fields  of  scholastic 
culture,  hiving  the  sweets,  quite  ignorant  yet  of  their  proba 
ble  or  iinal  use. 

During  his  residence  in  Germany,  the  young  American 
htudcnt,  bringing  to  the  Savans  of  that  country  the  homage 
of  a  fame  they  did  not  know  to  exist,  was  doubly  welcome. 
In  .Berlin  he  knew  Schleirmucher,  Wolflb  and  JSavigny.  It 
was  in  Jena  that  he  lir*t  saw  (Joethe.  The  old  man  was 
walking  in  his  garden  in  the  morning,  clad  with  (ierman 
carelessness,  in  heavy  loose  coat  and  trowser*,  without  a 
waistcoat,  He  had  the  imperial  presence  which  is  prc- 
.-.erved  in  all  the  statues  ami  pictures,  ami  talked  pleas 
antly  of  many  things  as  they  strolled.  Lord  By  run  was 
then  at  the  height  of  his  fame,  (joethe  a>ked  of  him  with 
interest,  and  said,  although  without 'passion  or  ill-feeling. 
that  the  English  poet  had  modelled  his  Manfred  upon 
Faust.  In  this  remark,  however,  Goethe  i-howcd  more  the 
pride' of  the  author  than  the  perception  of  the  critic.  For 
the  theme  attempted  in  both  poems  is  precisely  the.  one 
sure  to  fascinate  all  genius  of  a  certain  power,  and  the 


!>4  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTH-ORS. 

treatment  in  these  especial  instances  reveals  all  the  (lifter* 
ences  of  the  men. 

Afterward,  in  Italy,  our  student  saw  Lord  Byron.  He 
tirst  met  him  on  hoard  of  one  of  our  national  vessels  lying 
at  Leghorn,  and  to  which  the  poet  had  heen  invited.  Afi  he 
mounted  the  side  of  the  bhip,  Byron's  eye  fell  upon  a  group 
of  ladies,  and  he  wavered  a  moment,  saying  afterward  that 
he  feared  they  were  English,  toward  whom,  at  that  time, 
he  was  not  friendly.  lie  advanced  down  the  deck,  how; 
ever,  glat.l  to  learn  that  the  dreadful  cloud  of  muslin  en 
veloped  nothing  hut  Americans,  and  fell  into  animated  con 
versation. 

**  Ah  !  Lord  Byron,"  said  one  of  the  fairest  of  the  group, 
''when  I  return  to  America  no  one  -will  believe  that  I  have 
actually  seen  you.  I  must  carry  them  some  tangible  proof 
of  my  good  fortune.  "Will  you  give  me  the  rose  in  your 
hut  ton-hole?" 

The  u  free  and  independent "  address  did  not  displease 
the  poet,  and  he  gave  the  rose. 

I T pou  leaving  the  vessel,  Lord  Byron  asked  Mr.  Bancroft 
to  visit  him  at  his  villa,  Montcnero,  near  the  city,  to  which,   ; 
a  day  or  two  after,  he  went.     They  talked  of  many  things,' 
Lord  Byron  naturally  asking  endless  questions  of  America, 
lie  denied   the  charge  of  tJoethe  about  Manfred,  and  said 
that  he  had  never  read  Faust.      He  had  just  written  the 
letter  upon  Pope,  and,  in  conversation,  greatly  extolled  his. 
poetry.     Without  Miy ing  brilliant  or  memorable  things,  By-   . 
ron  was  a  fluent  and  agreeable  talker.     It  was  in  the  year 
l^iil,  and  he  was  writing  ])on  Juan.     "  People  call  it  im 
moral,"  said  he,  "  and  put  Roderick  Kandom  in  their  libra- ' 


BANCROFT.  Uc 

rics."  So  of  Shelley  ;  "  They  call  him  an  intidel,"  said  Lord 
Hyron,  "but  he  is  more  Christian  than. the  whole  of  them." 
When  his  visitor  rose  to  leave,  the  poet  took  down  a  volume 
containing  the  last  cantos  he  had  then  written  of  the  poem, 
and  wrote  his  name  in  them,  as  a  remembrance  "from  Noel 
Hyron."  But  Ambrosia  was  that  day  allotted  to  the  young 
American,  for  as  they  passed  slowly  through  the  saloon,  the 
host  "bade  him  tarry  a  moment,  and  leaving  the  room  imme 
diately  returned^  with  the  Countess  (riiiceioli.  She,  too, 
smiled,  and  gliding  into  the  mazy  mu>ic  of  Italian  speech, 
led  the  listener  on,  delighted.  Again  he  rose  to -go,  but  a 
servant  threw  open  a  door  and  discovered  a  collation  spread 
in  the  adjoining  room.  Perhaps  the  poet  pleaded  him>elf 
with  the  fancy  of  graciously  and  profusely  entertaining  his 
foreign  subjects  in  the  ambassadorial  per.-ou  of  his  guot. 
"That  is  fame,"  he  said,  upon  reading  in  some  tourist's  vol 
ume  that  a  copy  of  the  Knglish  'Hards  and  Scotch  Keviewcix 
had  been  found  by  him  at  Niagara.  The  modesty  of  hU 
American  visitor  might  recognize  in  the  cordiality  of  In* 
reception  and  treatment  Lord  Byron's  acknowledgment  of 
his  American  fame. 

In  IS±J  Mr.  Bancroft  returned  home,  and  served  for  a 
year  as  (J reek  tntor  in  Harvard  College.  During  his  long 
residence  in  Kurope  he  had  matured  his  projects  to  raise  the 
standard  of  education  in  America,  and  in  the  following  year 
he,  with  Mr.  Cogswell,  now  Librarian  of  the  A>tor  Library, 
commenced  the  famous  Uound  Hill  School  at  Northampton. 
Three  brothers  Shepard,  descendants  of  the  old  New  Kng- 
land  divine,  had  built  three-  neighboring  houses  upon  this 
hpot.  Gradually  they  had  all  passed  into  the  hands  of  one 


00  HOMES    OF    AMEHICAN    A  U  T  11  O  U  S. 

of  them,  who  was  willing  to  sell  them,  and  they  became  tho 
scat  of  the  school.  Tliij  estate  comprised  ahout  fifty  acres. 
The  school  was  immediately  filled  by  young  men  from  every 
part  of  the  country,  and  took  rank  directly  among  the  finest 
institutions.  Mr.  Bancroft  devoted  himself  with  unremitting 
ardor  to  the  enterprise.  The  system  of  study  pursued  at  the 
best  schools  in  the  world  was  introduced,  and  the  scheme 
was,  in  itself,  completely  successful.  Unhappily,  however, 
there  was  no  Oxford  and  no  Cambridge  for  this  Kton.  The 
course  of  Btudy  was  so  high  and  entire  that  the  graduates  of 
liound  Hill  were  well  fitted  to  enter  the  advanced  Classes  of 
any  College.  l>ut,  by  a  singular  provision  of  College  Laws 
those  who  entered  an  advanced  class  were  held  to  pay  for 
the  preceding  years.  Nor  did  the  studies  in  any  College' 
carry  the  student  forward  to  a  proportioned  result.  Shrewd 
men  did  not  want  to  pay  twice  for  their  sons'  education. 
Uoides,  it  was  a  solitary  effort,  — possibly  some  wild  whim 
thought  the  shrewd  men,  of  this  deeply-dyed  (jerman  Mil 
dent.  Thus,  although  in  itself  successful,  it  did  not  promise 
to  achieve  the  desired  result,  like  a  very  perfect  blossom, 
which  will  yet  not  ripen  into  a  fruit.  Mr.  .Bancroft's  inter- 
cst  in  it,  therefore,  gradually  declined. 

Meanwhile  he  had  served  other  aims  by  translating  his 
friend    lleeren's    History  of    (j recce,    and    had    been    lonir 

• 

meditating  and  preparing  the  material  for  a  History  of  the 
Tnited  States.  In  1S27  he  was  married  at  Springfield,  and 
icturning  to  Northampton  resumed  his  connection  with  the 
School  simply  as  a  teacher,  ami  presently  withdrew  from  i 
altogether.  In  the  house  represented  in  the  engraving  the 
tirst  volume  of  the  History  was  written,  and  published  in 


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BANCROFT.  !>7 

the  year  1834.  The  historian  then  removed  to  Springfield, 
where  he  resided  two  years,  completing  and  publishing 
another  volume  there. 

It  was  a  favorite  maxim  of  Ariosto,  and  of  Lord  Byron, 
that  every  man  of  letters  mitat  mix  in  affairs,  if  he  would 
secure  a  profound  influence  upon  men.  Only  by  contact, 
they  felt,  does  man  learn  to  know  man.  The  wandering 
.Homer,  the  actor  Shakspeare,  the  statesman  Milton,  Kurd 
Haeon,  the  privy  councillor  Cioethe,  Michael  Angelo  plan- 
ning  fort ilieat ions  for  Florence,  Leonardo  da  Vinci  designing 
drains  for  the  Lomhardy  plains,  are  names  upon  their  Mde. 
It  is  easy  to  bee  how  invaluable  to  a  hi^orian  must  be  this 
practical  intereourse  with  men  and  affairs,  of  whose  devclop- 
ment  history  is  the  record.  Mr.  Bancroft's  political  career, 
therefore,  is  not  only  a  remarkable  illustration  of  the  sue- 
ee.v-es  opened  in  a  republic  to  ability  and  energy,  but  it  has 
necessarily  been  of  the  profoitndcst  influence  upon  his  work. 
A  man  who  makes  part  of  the  history  of  his  own  time  can 

*'    better  write  that  of  another.     "While  f-till  resident  at  North 
ampton,  he  was,  quite  unwittingly  upon  his  part,  elected  a 

.  representative  to  the  General  Court,  but  his  engagements 
prevented  his  taking  his  seat.  Other  positions  were  offered 
him,  which  he  declined.  Appointed  Collector  of  J'ostou  in 
iMJSj  by  President  Van  limvn,  Mr.  Bancroft  brought  to  his 
new  duties  an  intelligence  and  zeal  which  secured  the  ac 
knowledgment  of  great  ability  from  very  determined  oppo 
nents.  He  was  again  married  at  this  time;  and,  during  the 
engrossing  engagements  of  his  oilice  he  labored  diligently 
upon  the  third  volume  of  the  history,  which  was  published 
in  184^.  In  the  year  1844  he  was  nominated  for  Governor 
7 


9$  1IOMKS    OF    AM  KIM  CAN    AUTHORS. 

•l>y  the  democratic  party.  He  was  not  elected,  although 
receiving  a  larger  vote  than  had  ever  before  been  polled 
upon  the  purely  democratic  issue.  Party  spirit  did  not 
spare  any  prominent  man,  and  plenty  of  hard  things  wore 
said  during  the  contest.  JJut  in  the  excited  moments  t.f 
political  difference,  although  givat  talent  is  often  conceded 
to  opponents,  integrity  and  kindliness  of  heart  are  as  often 
denied.  Throughout  a  canvass  of  great  acerbity  of  feeling, 
the  democratic  nominee  was  in  New-York,  engaged  in  ex 
amining,  often  for  more  than  the  twelve  hours  of  day,  the 
documents  illustrative  of  our  early  history,  which  Mr.  Hrod- 
head  had  then  just  brought  from  Holland  for  the  Histori 
cal  Society  of  his  State. 

In  1S44  Mr.  Polk  was  elected  President,  and  summoned 
Mr.  Bancroft  to  Washington  as  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  and 
in  the  autumn 'of  1S4(J,  he  crossed  the  ocean  as  Minister  to 
Kngland.  AVhen  Rubens,  the  painter,  resided  in  England' 
as  Dutch  Ambassador,  a  company  of  diplomats  one  day 
called  upon -him  and  found  him,  pallcttc  in  hand,  at  work- 
before  his  easel. 

"Ah!"  said  they,  "Monsieur  the  Ambassador  is  playing 
painter." 

"No,  gentlemen,"  responded  the  artist,  "the  painter  is 
playing  Ambassador." 

So  our  historian  played  Ambassador,  and  played  it  well. 
Upon  leaving  Washington  he  said  to  the  President  that  he 
should  devote  his  energies  to  the  modification  of  the  Nav 
igation  Act,  and  his  success  in  the  effort  is  one  of  the, 
chief  triumphs  of  Mr.  Bancroft's  political  career.  lie, 
did  not  arrive  as  a  stranger  in  London,  but  the  t-cholarw 


BANCROFT.  99 

there,  awl  the  learned  representatives  of  other  countries, 
were  already  correspondents  of  the  American  scholar  and 
loyal  to  the  lame  of  the  American  historian.  AVe  have 
had  no  foreign  representative  more  genuinely  American. 
Still  devoted  to  the  aim  of  his  lite,  —  by  personal  inter 
course  with  eminent  men  and  close  examination  of  all 
mutt-rial  accessible  in  England,  by  constant  correspondence 
with  other  parts  of  Europe,  especially  France,  and  frequent 
visits  to  Paris  to  explore  its  libraries  and  search  its  archives, 
the  Jlistory  of  the  United  States  went  on.  In  1S41)  Mr. 
Uancrot't  returned  to  the  United  States,  and  took  up  his 
residence  in  ^New-York.  The  fourth  volume  of  tho  history, 
comprising  the  Erench  war  and  the  beginnings  of  our  revo 
lution,  was  immediately  prepared  for  the  press  and  pub 
lished  by  his  old  publishers,  in  Imston,  in  the  spring  of 
l.Sfni.  Its  success,  after  so  long  and  highly-wrought  expec 
tation,  was  entire,  and  confirmed  the  satisfaction  that  the 
history  of  our  country  was  to  IK*  recorded  by  a  mind  so 
hUgaeious,  so  cognizant  of  the  national  ideas,  so  receptive 
of  the  national  spirit,  .so  allluent  in  historic  lore,  so  moulded 
by  intercourse  and  attrition  with  great  times  and  their  great 
est  men,  so  capable  of  expression  at  once  rich,  vigorous,  and 
Characteristic. 

Mr.  HancrotVs  time  is  now  divided  between  the  city  and 
the  seaside.  Early  in  the  hummer  he  repairs  to  Newj»ort, 
and  were  the  date  of  our  book  somewhat  later,  we  might 
enrich  our  pages  with  an  engraving  of  the  house  he  is  now 
building  there.  It,  will  be  a  simple,  summer  retreat,  lying 
upon  the  seaward  slope  of  the  clitF.  From  his  windows  he 
will  look  down  upon  the  ocean,  and  as  he  breathes  its  air, 


100  ilQIIKS    OF    AU.KUIt'AN     At'THOUS. 

impart  its  freshness  anil  vigor  to  his  pages.  The  iil'th  vol 
ume  of  the  history  is  now  printing.  It  will  comprise  the 
lir>t  events  of  the  greatest  epoch  of  modern  times.  Nor  i* 
it  possible  to  say  to  how  late  a  date  the  work  will  he  eon- 
tinued.  The  great  result  of  independence  once  achieved, 
the  consequent  organization  of  details  can  hardly  be  prop- 
criy  or  copiously  treated,  until  the  mind  can  clearly  trace 
the  characteristic  operation  of  principles  through  a 
what  longer  course  of  years. 


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DANA. 


CAPE  ANN  would  almost  appear  to  have  been  dcMgned 
by  Nature  to  afford  a  home  to  a  poet ;  and  especially  to 
a  poet  like  DANA,  who  has  always  'been  a  lover  of  the  eoa>t 
scenery  of  his  native  Now  England,  and  whose  genius  has 
contributed  so  much  to  invt>t  it  with  ideal  beauty.  For 
here,  within  the  easy  limits  of  morning  drives,  may  he  seen 
all  the  varieties  of  land  ami  sea  that  give  a  peculiar  pictu-. 
resqueness  to  these  shores,  from  Portland  round  to  Newport. 
Added  to  this,  the  country  inland  is  broken  into  hills,  rocks, 
dells,  meadows,  woodlands,  farms,  and  fields,  in  the  most 
charmingly  contused  manner  imaginable  ;  the  landscapes 
change  every  moment,  and  there  are  never  wanting  -new 
ones  enough  to  last  till  it  becomes  pleasant  to  rcvi.iit  tho>e 
with  which  the  eye  is  familjjir.  The  old  roads  wind  in  and 
out  and  up  and  down  with  a  most  alluring  sinuosity  ;  I  know 
of  one  where  for  nearly  live  miles  the  forest  -trees  almost  join 
hands  overhead,  and  the  curves  are  calculated  upon  such  e-x- 
ceedingly  short  radii  (to  borrow  a  phrase  of  the  railway  en- 


HOMES  OF  AMKUICAN  AUTHORS. 

gineeris)  that  one  can  never  bee  more  than  a  hundred  rods 
in  advance;  for  the  next  five  miles  the  way  goes  over  high 
granite  rolling  hills,  with  magnificent  ocean  views  from 
their  hare  summits,  and  deep  green  vales  between,  lined 
with  orchards,  cornfields,  and  meadows,  and  thickly  sown 
with  ancient  farmhouses.  This  is  near  Squam  Ferry,  as  the 
ivnid  goes  towards  Ksscx.  If  he  chooses,  the  explorer  may 
turn  aside  through  a  gateway,  and  a  mile  or  two  over  loose 
sand  and  Band-elilFs,  that  look  like  huge  snow-drifts,  will 
living  him  to  a  desolate  peninsular  beach,  that  stretches 
away,  1  know  not  how  fai',  to  the  northward.  This  heach 
is  one. of  the  finest,  and  hy  iishennen  one  of  the  most  dread 
ed  on  the  coast;  it  i«  very  wide,  and  as  smooth  and  almost 
as  hard  as  a  marble  floor;  the  wind  in  the  distance  appears 
ulinont  perfectly  white.  Somewhere  oii  it  is  a  buried  farm, 
but  the  peninsula  is  now  uninhabited,  and  accessible  only 
at  one  extremity.  To  ride  or  walk  on  this  apparently  inter 
minable  waste,  with  no  companion  but  the  marching  waves, 
that  loom  up  so  threateningly,  and  seem  so  loudly  impatient 
for  another  victim  that  one-becomes  almost  afraid  of  them, 
is  not 'the  least  of  Capo  Ann's  poetical  attractions  to  "the 
man  of  fine  feeling,  and  deep  and  delicate  and  creative 
thought:"  —  such  an  one  as  the  IIU.K  MAN  has  identified 
himself  with  by  the  very  substance  and  eloquence  of  his 
description,  in  the  essay  he  has  entitled  *A  Musings." 

In  another  direction,  the  road  which  leads'  to  the  beauti 
fully  situated  old  town  of  Gloucester,  and  thence  goes  quite 
round  the  shore  of  the  Cape,  offers  vi'ews  no  less  various 
and  interesting.  Uoek,  beach,  headland  and  island  alter 
nate  with  each  other  for  the  whole  distance;  and  the  gen- 


DANA.  105 

'oral  sterility  of  the  scenery,  with  the  sense  of  loneliness  and 
desolation  it  inspires,  reach  a  climax  at  the  extremity  or 
"  pitch  of  the  Cape,"  where  Thatcher's  Island  with  its  cold 
lighthouses  stands  out  into  the  Atlantic  surges.  Further 
round,  towards  Kockport,  are  some  high  hills,  from  which 
the  ocean  appears  almost  encircling  the  horizon  ;  broad 'and 
blue,  of  that  deep  ultramarine  hue  peculiar  to  our  northern . 
waters,  it  rises  upward  half-way  to  the  sky,  and  the  distant 
sails  which  dot  it  over  literally  "hang  in  the  clouds."  I 
.shall  always  remember  one  early  morning  here,  when  the 
breeze  blew  fresh  and  the  white-caps  gleamed  in  the  lattei 
dawning;  the  horizon  line  was  as  clear  as  in  a  picture,  and  . 
the  surf  was- foaming  joyfully  upon  the  ledges.  Some  of 
the  precipices  here  and  elsewhere  on  the  Cape  are  not  ex 
celled  for  grandeur  by  those  of  Xahant. 

Kockport  is  in  itself  a  curiosity  —  a  little  thriving  village 
stretched  along  a  narrow  shore,  and  just  able  to  preserve 
itself  from  being  wa>hcd  into  the  deep.  A  strong  sea-wall 
scarcely  protects  a  little  basin  of  a  harbor,  in  which  .-um»- 
lift y  tMiing  schooners  aro  usually  lying.  Many  of  the  im 
mense  blocks  of  granite  composing  this  wall  were  moved 
from  their  places  in  the  great  gale  of  1S51,  and  tho  wh«»le 
would  have  probably  gone  hail  the  gain  continued  another 
tide.  Beyond,  ami  forming  a  part  of  Itockport,  is  Pigeon 
Cove,  wliere  are  extensive  granite  quarries,  hewn  into  the 
pine-covered  elitls.  The  scenery  hero  will  bear  Othell/s 
description  :- 

"  Kougli  iji,.irrit  -,  rock*,  aii'l  hill*  v>  h«>-   hotuta  touch  heaven." 

Or  if  the  whole  of  Capo  Ann  were  to  be  described  in 


106  IIOMK8    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

brief,  it  couM  hardly  be  more  aptly  done  than  in  the  Ian 
guago  of  one  who  has  profited  by  an  observation  of  Ameri 
can  scenery  which  the  perplexed  Othello  could  hardly  have 
t*;  i joyed .:  — 

"Tlu-  hill* 

Rock-ribbM,  *u«l  ancient  u»  the  BUII —  thu  vaU-* 
Stretching  in  jtfiiaivc  quictix***  bctWH'ii  ; 
Tin:  veiirrublt)  \vi»i>«ln  —  rivers  that  im»vu 
In  uuiji'ftty,  uiul  thu  couijilttiiting  brook* 
Tliut  nmk«  tin-  mciuiowa  gn-cn ;  aini  |K»urM  rouixl  all 
Old  ocvan'd  J.THV  nnd  nu'lauclittly  wiMti-/1 

Such  is  the  vicinity  in  which  DANA  has  found  a  home 
congenial  with  his  spirit.  Hut  I  know  not  how  to  describe 
itj  or  how  to  speak  of  him  in  connection  with  it,  except  by 
drawing  from  the  actual.  Let  me  then,  as  necessary  to  the 
purpose,  beg  the  reader's  indulgence  in  asking  him  to  trans 
port  himself  to  the  .place  where  1  am  at  this  moment  writ 
ing.  It  is  an  old  farmhousev  about  tour  miles  by  the  road 
from  Dana's  residence,  though  but  tor  the  projecting  lodges 
and  deeply  indented  coves  it  would  bo  much  nearer.  From 
my  window,  looking  westward  over  the  meadows  near  tlie 
shore,  1  can  almost  see  there.  It  is  a  bright  August  morn 
ing;  so  calm  that  the  swell  is  scarce  audible  on  the  beauti 
ful  willow-lined  beach  just  below  me.  Looking  seaward  are 
the  rocky  islets  visible  from  "Mr.  Dana's  house,  and'  the  high 
point  on  which  stands  a  solitary  oak,  long  a  watcher  over 
the  waters,  but  blasted  the  early  part  of  this  summer  bv 
lightning;  inland  nrc  meadows  and  far-oil*  farmhouses  with 
deep  green-wooded  hills  in  the  distance.  Around  me  all  is 


DANA.  107 

still  ami  ringing  in  the  hot  sun ;  except  only  the  threshers, 
who  are  making  a  rural  bound  in  yonder  barn. 

Let  each  ot'  my  readers  "play  with  his  fancy"  and  think 
ho  hears  with,  me  the  noise  of  a  carriage  jolting  along  d«»\vn 
the  long. lane  that  leads  here,  where  carriage  seldom  comes.. 
It  approaches  —  nearer  —  and  now  it  cease*  on  the  given- 
sward  under  the  window.  We  look  out  and  perceive  a 
plain  country  double-seated  wagon,  in  which  are  a  gentle 
man  and  two  little  girls.  He  is  preparing  to  defend,  and 
J,  recognizing  him,  go  down  to  meet  him.  We  tiud  an 
elderly  gentleman  of  sixty  or  thereabout,  with  a  counte 
nance  bearing  the  marks  of  care  and  thought,  but  having 
u  mo>t  pleasant  half  sad  expression  ;  a  voice  of  peculiar 
sympathetic  quality,  and  a  manner  very  frank  and  simple.- 
yet  conveying  an  impression  of  singular  retinement.  l»e- 
•yond  this  there  is  little  to  notice,  except  that  he  is  sume- 
what  under  the  middle  height,  unusually  Bquare-iihoulclored, 
and  wears  a  loose  brown  linen  frock  and  a  palm-leaf  hat 
evidently  designed  to  keep  the  sun  oil*. 

This  is  the  author  of  the  "  Buccaneer,"  "  Paul  1'Vlton," 
and  numerous  other  poems  ami  prose  writings,  which  have 
enriched  his  country's  literature,  by  tending  to  make  nature 
and  art  more  beautiful,  truth  and  pimty  of  heart  more 
lovely,  and  faith  in  Christianity  stronger. 

We  will  now,  at  his  invitation,  step  in  and  ride  ovtjr 
with  him  to  dine  —  promising,  however,  that  the  reader 
shall  expect  no  set  conversation,  poetical,  critical,  or  other, 
beyond  what  might  naturally  suggest  itself  to  thinking  ant) 
educated  persons,  long  acquainted,  and  experienced  in  life, 
driving  along  an  o!d  country  road,  with  children  in  charge, 


108  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTUORS. 

US  full  of  questions  and  sage  observations  AS. any  this  hemi 
sphere  ami  age  can  probably  produce 

The  last  half  mile  of  the  road  is  in  a  wood,  where  we 
come  to  a  gate  which  lets  us  into  the  poet's  ground*,  the 
wood  still  continuing  along  the  base  of  a  hill.  At  length 
we  emerge  upon  an  open  lawn  and  see  the  house,  "We  soon 
reach  it,  and  leaving  our  horse  (a  quiet,  contemplative  ani 
mal,  by  the  way,)  to  the  care  of  an  Exile  of  Erin,  we  enter 
the  hall.  The  doors  are  open,  and  we  perceive  directly  he- 
tore  and  beneath  us  the  ocean.  Passing  through,  we  see  at 
a  glance  that  the  lawn  on  which  the  house  stands  shelves  oil' 
u  few  rods  in  front  of  it,  in  an  almost  perpendicular  gravelly 
dill',  about  sixty  feet  above  a  smooth  sandy  beach.  The  edge 
»»t'  this  cliff  is  fringed  by  the  remains  of  an  old  wall  covered 
with  a  growth  of  bushes  and  low  trees,  which  reaches  also 
to  tlie  "beach  down  the  cliff's  face.  The  beach  is  almost  a 
perfect  semicircle,  of  about  a  third  of  a  mile  in  extent, 
and  is  perfectly  isolated;  on  the  right  by  u  Eagle  1 1  cud,"  a 
projecting  ledge  that  makes  out  beyond  it  into  the  >ea,  and 
on  the  left  by  "Shark'*?  Mouth,"  the  precipitous  base  of  the 
hill  round  which  we  lately  passed.  The  house  stands  on  a 
line  with  the  beach,  that  is,  nearly  south,  and  the  hill,  cov 
ered  with  a  thick  growth  of  wood,  encircles  the  lawn  round 
the  north,  an  effectual  barrier  to  the  cold  winds,  which  come, 
chictly  from  that  quarter.  A  still  further  protection  is  afford 
ed  by  a  high  wooded  island  of  considerable  extent,  which  be 
longs  to  the  estate,  and  lies  perhaps  ft*  hundred  rods  from 
just  within  the  base  of  the  hill,  and  seems  placed  there  as 
a  shelter  to  the  beach. 

Ihit  it  is  still  early  in  the  day,  and  the  family  not  having 


DANA.  109 

yet  assembled,  our  host,  after  hearing  us  exhaust  the  various 
expressions  of  "How  beautiful!"  ami  the  like,  which  the 
first  view  of  the  place  draws  from  every  visitor,  leaves  us  in 
enjoy  it  for  a  while  by  ourselves.  It  will  He  a  convenient 
opportunity  to  luentiou  what  I  have  learnt  of  the  history 
and  topography  of  the  estate. 

It  originally  belonged  to  a  man  named  (Jraves,  and  tin- 
island  and  beach  are  still  called  by  his  name  on  the  map?, 
lie  had  been  a  shipmaster,  and  long  after  him  there  was  n. 
tradition  to  the  ell'ect  that  he  had  here  buried  doubloons. 
The  money-diggers  tried  to  iind  them,  but  their  HUCCCSS  or 
failure  still  remains  a  question  fur  antiquaries.  The  estate 
contains  a  little  over  one  hundred  acres  of  woods-,  beach, 
rocks,  island,  and  land  capable  of  cultivation.  AVe  observe 
how  the  beach  is  shut  in  by  the  rocks  and  island.  This 
beach  is  the  only  one  in  the  vicinity  that  is  private  prop 
erty. 

lu  Massachusetts  the  townships  were  originally  granted 
to  their  proprietors,  ///  <•</;////«//*,  and  then  by  them  assigned 
and  subdivided.  Certain  pasture  lands,  and  the  beaches, 
were  usually  not  assigned,  and  were  still  held  in  -common. 
The  control  over  these  vested  in  the  legal  Voters  of  the 
towns  in  which  they  were  situated.  This  is  the  case  with 
Hoston  Common,  and  with  nearly  all  the  beaches  in  the 
Stale.  Graves's  beach,  however,  partly  fnun  its  being  shut 
in  by  its  headlands,  but  chictly  fmm  its  connection  at  low 
tide  with  the  island,  which  has  always  been  private  prop 
erty,  passed  to  the  owner  of  the  upland  ;  and  all  the  deeds 
run  to  low-water  mark.  So  that  both  legally  and  practically 
it  is  private  property  and  belongs  to  the  estate, 


110  HOMKS    OF    AMERICAN    A  U  Til  Oil  8. 

\Vc  arc,  us  wo  see,  oa  the  south  nhore  of  Capo  Ann,  and 
protected  by  many  miles  of  land  and  wooded  hills  o.n  the 
north  and  east.  Hie  south  winds,  which  are  the  hot  one* 
inland  in  summer,  are  cooled  by  coming  from  oil'  the  water. 
The  trees,  which  -grow  quite  down  to  the  beach,  so  tnat  we 
might  stand  under  thick  foliage,  with  flowers'  under  foot,  and 
throw  pebbles  into  the  ocean,  show  how  much  the  severity 
of  the  "cast  winds"  is  here  mitigated  by  the  shelter  of  the 
hills. 

<  Yonder  rocky  headland,  to  the  eastward,  is  u  Norman's 
Woe,"  celebrated  in  Longfellow's  ballad.  At  the  right  we 
may  see  from  these  windows  the  lighthouses  at  the  entrances 
of  Salem,  JJoston,  and  Marblehead  harbors.  ]»chind  us, 
about,  a  mile  distant,  is  the  village  of  Manchester,  with  its 
little  harbor  and  creek.  We  are  south  of  the  Gloucester 
and  Boston  road,  which  bounds  the  estate  on  the  north. 
Hefore  it  was  purchased  by.  Mr.  Dana,  the  property  had 
lain  quite  wild,  and  there  are  still  crows,  hawks,  iVc.,  in 
plenty,  with  an  occasional  visit  from  an  eagle.  I  low  near 
the  befell  that  wild  duck  ventures  !  lie  seems  to  bo  aware 
that  here  there  is  no  danger.  Even  the  "  little  beach  birdsj" 
which  are  esteemed  such  a  delicacy  that  the)  are  shot  with 
out  mercy  every  where  else,  here  find  a  spot  where  they 
may  forage  and  twitter,  and  wing  their  short  unsteady 
{lights  without  molestation. 

The  estate  was  purchased  by  Mr.  Dana  by  the  sale  of  a 
part  of  his  inherited  property  in  Cambridge,  and  the  house 
was  built  by  him.  It  has  been  suffered  to  remain,  except 
levelling  the  lawn,  and  setting  a  few  spruces  where  they 
were  rather  needed  as  screens  to  the  stable  and  out-build- 


DANA.  Ill 

ings  than  for  ornament,  as  nearly  as  possible  in  IN  original 
condition.     Hut  the  thick  underwood  of  the  hill  has  boon 
hewn  into  lit th-  paths  leading  to  the  open  Hummit  by  various 
mutes,  and  to  the  points  where  the  bent  views  may  lie  had 
of  the  land  and  ocean.     Some  of  these  are  very  line,  and 
have  been  commemorated,  it  is  said,  by  sketches  not  less  BO. 
While  we  are  making  these  observations,  our  host  reap 
pears  divested  of  his  rustic  garb,  and  we  take  chairs  and 
seat  ourselves  under  the  broad  piaxzu.     Our  talk  is  of  old 
times,  and  modern  times,  the  things  that  have  been  and  are, 
and  are  likely  to  be  hereafter  —  a  range  ,of  subjects  much 
more  extensive,  in  fact,  than  that  proposed  by  Talkative,  in 
Hunyun.      Jt  might  be  thought,  from  the  tinish  and  care 
shown  in  his  writings,  that  Dana  would  be  reserved  in  con 
versation,  or  at  least  didactic.     Hut  it  is  not  so.     His  conver 
sution  is  free,  genial,  discursive,  abounding  in  acute  obser 
vation  of  life,  in  apt  anecdote,  and,  what  may  be  thought 
hardly  possible  by  those  who  have  only  known  him  as  a  poet 
and  author,  in  humor.     His  sense  of  the  ridiculous  is  no  !»•-< 
keen  than  his  perception  of  beauty;  and  ho  passes  from  one 
to  the  other  with   the  freedom  of  a  reflective  mind,  and  a 
-rapidity  which,  while  it  is  perfectly  natural  and  consistent 
with  true  emotion,  sometimes  lias  a  strange  effect  upon  the 
nerves  of  those  who  have  not  been  in  the  habit  of  coming 
in  contact  witli  a  mind  of  such  calibre.     Let  a  formal  char 
acter,  accustomed  to  run  in  a  certain  roadway  of  thought, 
htruy  into  his  society  when  he  is  in  his  arm-chair  with  two 
or  three  fireside  friends,  and  Mr.  Formality  will  be  likely 
to  have  his  eyes  open  very  wide  more  than  once,  if  he  remains 
long  «i  listener.     Hut  though  it  certainly  can  never  be  charg- 


112  HOMES    OF    AMEHICAN    AUTHORS. 

ud  upon  Dana  that  he  has  studied  to  conceal  hk  opinions, 
or  shrunk  from. setting  them  forth  in  strong  lights,  yet  it  is 

not  matter  of  opinion  or  of  controversy,  by  any  means,  that 
forms  the  staple  of  his  discourse.  He  loves  rather  to  dwell 
upon  matters  of  art  and  manners,  on  subject's  connected  with 
pointing  and  music,  and  poetry,  the  soul  of  all.  Here  his 
fountain  of  ideas  is  inexhaustible  ;  and  he  pours  them  out 
HO  constantly  and  unerringly  towards  all  that  is  high  and 
good,  that  they  germinate  and  grow  upward  into  lofty  and 
•true  principles  in  the  minds  of  others.  Within  this  circle, 
and  it  is  a  suiliciently  extensive  one,  few  can  walk  HO  well 
as  he. 

He  has  also  the  rare  faculty  of  imperceptibly  conducting 
conversation  along  these  quiet  and  secure  channels.  In 
passing  a  few  hours  with  Dana,  and  those  by  whom  he  is 
usually  surrounded,  men  lose  for  the  while  a  portion  of  their 
individuality,  and  iind  themselves  capable  of  new  states  of 
being.  They  iind  themselves  refreshed,  or  perplexed,  or 
excited,  they  hardly  know  why  or  how,  but  impressed  they 
must  be  if  they  possess  common  susceptibility.  There  are 
those  who  have  this  secretly  influencing  faculty  in  common 
with  Dana  — many,  it  is  probable,  in  all  walks  of  lift — indi 
viduals  M!IO  have  power  to  throw  a  passing  light,  on  tho.M* 
around  them,  to  lift  them  up,  as  it  were,  by  a  strong  idio 
syncratic  or  idiodynamic  force,  deprived  of  which,  they  fall 
back  by  their  own  inertness  ;  but  few  are  so  highly  charged 
with  this  spiritual  magnetism  as  Dana.  His  friends  must 
have  remarked  that  there  are  many  in  his  circle  of  personal 
acquaintance  who  are  different  creatures  when  he  is  by, 
much  wiser  and  wittier  than  at  any  othvr  times,  and  more 


DANA.  .  113 

impressible.  This  is,  perhaps,  one.  of  the  most  desirable  spe 
cies  of  conversational  poiwr.  It  is  not  the  power  of  elo 
quence  and  intellectual  greatness  alone,  like  that  of  Cole 
ridge  ;  it  is  rather  the  Scott  faculty,  who  charmed  listener* 
by  his  unaifectedness,  and  health-imparting  vigor.  It  is  the 
five  intercourse  of*  one  spirit  with  another  —  "good  talk,"  as 
a  child  of  my  acquaintance  once  expressed  it. 

Hut  while  wo  are  enjoying  this  sort  of  intercourse  two  or 
three  hours  have  slipped  away,  and  the  different  members 
of  the  poet's  family,  and  the  guests,  if  there  are  any,  and 
thero  are  almost  sure  to  bo  some,  are  beginning  to  drop  in 
from  their  morning  rambles.  One  comes  with  a  book  in 
hand  from  the  shades  of  the  hill  ;  another  with  a  portfolio; 
two  or  three  more  with  baskets  of  blackberries,  for  the  hill 
and  it*  environs  are  said  to  be  one  of  the  best  "  berrying 
places"  in  the  vicinity,  as  the  anything-but-ruby  lips  of  all 
the  incomers  bear  oral  though  inarticulate  evidence.  \Vhile 
all  this  transpires  dinner  approaches,  and  it  becomes  time. 
v;is  Dana  the  younger  might  express  it,  to  "call  all  hands  ;" 
for  some  are  still  away  yonder,  looking  like  Matthew  Lee  — 


•"Sitting  on  that  l«»n«r,  Mack 
Whu  h  make*  t»o  fur  out  iti  the  tu-a  , 
the  kcl|)-\vcvd  on  itscJge 


and  some  are  still  ensanguining  their  iingerd  in  the  black 
berry  thickets,  lost  to  all  considerations  of  time  and  dining. 
The  call  must  bo  sounded,  which  is  a  horn,  blown  by  a 
Triton  —  not  a  "wreathed  horn,"  however,  but  a  tin  one. 
such  as  sends  welcome  echoes  in  summer  time  all  over  New 
England  meadows.  They  hear;  and  rock,  wood,  and.  hill 
8 


114  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN*    AUTHORS. 

•  • 

"  robelluw  to  tho  roar."  Very  HOOII  tho  truants  arc  brought 
ii^  and  after  tho  usual  metamorposis  in  apparel,  the  import 
ant  duty  of  tho  day  commence*.  Think  of  thus  dining,  in 
a  parlor  with  tho  cool  southwest  wind  Mowing  through  tho 
lattice  right  oil'  the  Atlantic,  drowsily  murmuring  on  the 
beach  below ! 

Were  it  not,  gentlo  reader,  who  thus  far  hast  accompa 
nied  mo  — were  it  not  that  you  are  invisible  to  mortal  eyes, 
1  should  insist  on  your  taking  a  place  at  the  table,  \shere,  I 
feel  sure,  if  you  love  what  refreshes  every  department,  lloor, 

•  »r  story  of  the  inner  man,  you  would  enjoy  yourself  and  be 
welcome;  but  this  is  denied  me.     On  the  'parlor  table  there, 
you  will  turd  some  newspapers,  magazines  and  books;  divin 
ity,  German  metaphysics,  novels,  and  the   like,  mostly  in 
English  ;  and  on  the  piano  is  a  pile  of  music,  much  of  which 
has  been  sung  or  played  till  the  notes  of  all  the  parts  have 
almost  vanished   into  the  air  —  among   the  rest,  some  old 
masses  of  Haydn  and  Mozart,  which  it  may  amuse  you  to 
put  together  according  to  the  paging.     (I  have  myself  tried 
it  with  but  indifferent  success.)      Or  if  Griswold's  "Poets 
of  America"  is  among  the  hooks,  perhaps  it  would  suit  you 
better  to  glance  at  his  sketeh  of  Dana's  life  and  writings. 
<Lest  it  should  not  be,  I  will   leave  you  the  following  sum 
mary  :  — 

u  liichard  Henry  Dana  was  born  at  Cambridge  in  17S7. 
At  the  ago  of  ten  he  went  to  live  with  his  grandfather,  the 
lion.  William  Ellory,  of  Newport,  K.  I.,  one  of  the  signers 

•  •I*  the  Declaration  of  Independence.      Here  he  remained 
until  he  entered  Harvard  College.     On  leaving  College  in 
1S07,  he  went  to  Baltimore  and  entered  as  a  law  student  in 


DANA.  115 

the  office  of  Gen.  Robert  Qoodloe  Harper,  of  Baltimore. 
Returning  thence,  ho  finished  his  studies  and  commenced 
practice  in  his  native  town.  He  noon  gave  up  the  law,  how- 
over,  and  became  an  assistant  of  his  relative,  Prof.  Kdwurd 
T.  Channing,  in  the  conduct  of  the  North  American  Review, 
then  established  about  two  years.  In  1821  lie  began  tin* 
44  Idle  Man,"  in  which  he  published  some  of  his  most  admir 
ed  tales.  His  lirst  poem,  **The  Dying  Raven,"  he  published 
in  1825,  in  the  New- York  Review,  then  edited  by  Mr.  Bry 
ant.  Two  years  after  he  published  tho  "  Buccaneer,  and 
otlter  Poems,'*  and  in  IS.'W  his  "  Poems  and  Prose  Writ 
ings."  His  Lectures  on  Shakspeare,  which  have  been  deliv 
ered  in  most  of  our  principal  cities,  he  has  not.  yet  given  to 
the  public.  In  IS  I4,)  he  published  a  new  edition  of  his  entire 
collected  works.  lie  has  always  resided  in  Boston  or  its 
vicinity,  and  the  incidents  of  his  life  are  purely  domestic/1 

Such  is  a  brief  summary  of  the  life  of  one  whose  writing* 
have  exercised  a  great  and  permanent  and  healthful  intlu- 
enee  upon  our  literature,  and  whoso  position  is  in  the  tir.-t 
rank  of  the  intellectual  men  of  our  nation. 

Many  such  summaries  might  be  read  during  a  dinner 
time —  even  during  an  American  dinner-time  —  but,  as  the" 
Chorus  to  Henry  Yth  very  sensibly  remarks,  "time,  num 
bers,  and  due  course  of  things,  cannot  be  here  presented."  I 
hhall,  therefore,  call  up  ancient  (iower  to  assure  the  reader, 
should  he  doubt  it,  that  dinner  is  now  over.  Having  already 
transported  him  f«»ur  miles  (and  I  may  wish  him  to  walk 
home  with  me  presently)  I  do  not  tVel  at  liberty  to  draw 
further  upon  his  credulity  without  a  letter  of  credit  from  an 
approved  house.  Doctor  Johnson  observes  of  Othello,  that 


116  UOMKS    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

•'  had  tho  scene  opened  in  Cyprus,  and  the  preceding  inci- 
dents  been  occasionally  related,  there  had  been  little  want 
ing  to  11  drama  of  the  most  exact  and  scrupulous  regularity." 
Judging  from  the  success  of  much  of  the  fictitious  and  dra 
matic  literature  of  the  day,  I  fear  he  had  too  little  confidence 
iu  the  docility  of  the  human  fancy;  1  would  not  hesitate,  did 
I  know  any  thing  of  the  matter,  to  introduce  into  this  hketch 
an  essay  on  the  Tarilf  question.  The  pnl  lie  are-  getting  to 
be  like  the  gentleman  who,  on  doubting  the  truth  of  a  story, 
and  berng  taken  up  for  it,  pacified  the  narrator  by  begging 
his  pardon,  and  Haying  that  he  would  believe  any  thing, 
••rather  than  hurt  a  friend's  feelings." 

liut  this  is  mere  al'teixlinner  criticism.  AVe  are  now  in 
•mid-afternoon,  Heated  with  the  poet's  family  and  guests,  in 
'the  shade  of  the  house;  home  of  the  ladies  are  in  the  parlor 
or  under  the  piazza  playing  at  needlework ;  but  the  most  of 
us  have  brought  chairs  upon  the  narrow  lawn  above  the  cliff, 
and  ure  idle  according  to  our  several  tastes.  The  children  — 
Mr.  Dana's  grandchildren  and  the  children  of  a  visitor  — 
are  occupied  with  a  nest  of  young  sea-gulls  which  the  boys 
brought  yesterday  from  yonder  bare  rock  about  two  miles 
oil*  shore,  and  which  they  are  trying  to  tame.  Some  are 
endeavoring  to  count  the  number  of  sails  that  now  glisten 
over  the  sea  in  the  light  of  the  declining  sun,  and  there  is  a 
question  whether  there  are  fifty-two  or  three  in  all,  it  being 
doubtful  whether  those  just  visible  specks  below  the  eastern 
horizon  ought  to  be  reckoned ;  also  minor  questions  have 
arisen  as  to  their  rig,  whether  they  are  foreign  or  domestic, 
and  the  like  —  matters  which  are  the  fruit  of  endless  discus 
sion  with  young  sailors  not  yet  emerged  from  the  state  of 


DANA.  117 

d,  Faces  loved  awl  revered  for  nuiiiy  year*  aiv 
around  us —  others  in  which  we  trace  the  lineaments  of 
those  that  were  young  when  we  were  young  —  more  than 
all,  one  that  was  old  when  we  were  young,  and  is,  to  me  at 
least,  less  old  now  that  I  am  older.  Speaking  of  the  scene 
before  us,  some  one  half  consciously  tjuotes  — 

"Or  like  a  bhi|)  boiuo  suimm-r'a  t'»»y 
lit  Miii-hin.'  .-ailing  far  away :  " — 

which  leads  our  venerable  host  to  praise  "The  White  Doe 
of  flylestoiio  "  in  language  of  which  the  words  might  be  as 
•easily  quoted  as  u  How  line!"  or  u  I  love  thee !"  but  which, 
in  their  expression,  Lear,  as  those  often  do,  a  n^eaning  that 
the  printer's  art  cannot  reach.  From  4his  we  are  very 
naturally  led  to  speak  of  Wordsworth,  and  the  Prelude — but 
wo  are  interrupted  by  a  shout  from  the  juveniles;  u there 
comes  the  ( •uuarder!"  And  sure  enough  there  she  is,  hei 
black  hull  looming  on  the  horizon,  and  a  lon»j  line -of  smoke 

O  *» 

following  in  her  wake.  The,  telescope"  is  brought  out, 
mounted  on  a  chair,  and  adjusted  and  re-adjusted  to  suit  the 
vi.-inns  of  all.  Through  it  we  can  see  the  white  foam  from 
the  steamship's  wheels,  and  the  "bone  in  her  mouth;"  we" 
can  almost  distinguish  people  on  her  deck.  In  a  few  hoinv 
more  die  will  be  in  her  dock,  ami  to-morrow  afternoon  some 
of  her  passengers  may  be  in  New  York,  some  in  Albany, 
and  some  in  the  White  Mountains.  The  news  hhe  bring* 
will  be  in  New  Orleans  before  morning.  Wonder  who  is  on 
board?  Perhaps  the  Queen  herself.  She  would  be  wel 
comed,  1  am  sure,  as  never  was  lady  before.  What  proces 
sions  we  should  have?  Up  the  Bowery,  down  Broadway; 


118  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

"from  Iloxbury  lino  to  Faneuil  Hull,  up  Court  and  Tremont  to 
a  tent  on  the  Common,  &c., — it  would  bo  grand  1  But  sho 
will  probably  coiuo  in  hor  own  yacht — and  when  sho  does, 
nobody  certainly  can  nay  we  have  a  British  tonj  among  us. 

"  But  do  you  think,"  observes  our  host,  very  characteris 
tically,  "that  all  we  gain  in  mere  utility  must  necessarily  be 
obtained  at  some  sacrifice  of  beauty  '  What  can  he  more 
beautiful  to  the  eye  than  those  white  *ails — their  varying 
forms  and  shades  of  lightness?  The  steamship  certainly 
I'juuiot  compare  with  them.  And  H»  with  stage  coaches  and 
railroads,  and  in  architecture — indeed  every  where,  we  observe 
it."  The  suggestion  leads  to  home  discussion,  which  is  intcr- 
rtijitcd.  howevei'j  from  another  quarter  by  a  question  about 
4he  opera.  This,  by  some  occult,  though  natural  transition, 
leads  us  to  speak  of  the  Coal  Mines  of  Khode, Island  ;  Tenny- 
s<w ;  Kuskin  and  Turner;  Homeopathy;  New-York  book- 
publishers;  a'  receipt  for  making  bread  without  yeast; 
whether  it  would  be  believed  (this  in  answer  to  a  young 
'academician  guest,  who  objected  to  a  story  he  had  been 
reading,  its  want  of  probability)  that  Mr.  Dana  and  myself 
had  listened  to  quartctts  of  Mo/urt  and  Beethoven  in  such  a 
street  in  New  York  on  a  certain  winter  evening,  while  a 
wild  elephant  was  walking  under  the  very  window?  arguing 
lluit  the  very  improbability  ought  to  command  belief;  then 
44S  to  the  overland  route  to  California ;  Margaret  Fuller; 
Bloomerism ;  the  Senate  of  the  United  States ;  that  there 
ought  to  be  a  new  edition  of  Brockden  Brown,  with  per 
sonal  recollections  of  him  from  a  lady  (the  mother  of  one 
now  present)  who  remembers  him ;  when  will  there  bo 
aijother  Charles  Lamb  ?  the  poet  agrees  with  Sir  Kenelm 


DANA.  .  119 

Digby  about  Cervantes  and  Don  Quixote,  which  I  by  no 
means  can;  Hartley  Coleridge,  and  Ejuxrias:  — 

JJoswixL. — "Do  you  suppose  great  artists  fief,  like  other 
men?" 

DANA. — "  Yes ;  they  are  strong  enough  to  bear  at  all." 

I'OSWKM.. — "  And  that  Shakspearo  felt  Hamlet,  oven?" 

DANA.— "Certainly." 

J>oswi:ix. — ul  can  believe  it  of  Mozart,  when  I  hear  that 
Kyrio  to  the  Twelfth  Mass.  But  /was  never  meant  for  an 
arti.-t,  then.  I  am  not  strong;  1  cannot  fuller  and  he, 

DANA. — (Smiling)  "You  are  big  enough.  "Well,  there'* 
nothing  like  keeping  at  work  ami  doing  the  best  we  can. 
You  see  it  is  easy  to  give  advice,  at  all  events." 

Presently  this  very  formal  sort  of  conversation  is  inter 
rupted  by  a  discovery  some,  one  has  made,  that  there  i.s  an 
interloper  with  a  gun  upon  the  beach.  Poet,  knights,  and 
ladies  instantly  act  upon  the  advice  of  King  Henry  at  Agin- 
court ;  and  there  is  no  rest  till  the  Kxile  of  Erin  is  sent  to 
RMpie.^t  and  then  warn  the  intruder  to  depart. 

Hut  the  incident  breaks  the  current  of  chat,  and  looking 
'westward,  we  perceive  it  is  near  sundown.  AVe  must  depart 
also,  and  1  hhall  be  glad  of  your  company  at  least  a  part  of 
my  way  home.  Leave  taking  between  thoso  who  expect 
soon  to  meet  again  is  a  short  ceremony ;  we  merely  bid  good 
evening,  reserving  for  another  occasion  the  sight  of  some 
/favorite  trees  in  the  woods,  and  some  recently  discovered 
paths.  We  are  soon  out  upon  the  old  road  by  the  gate  we 
came.  How  cool  and  grateful  the  forest  smells  in  the  falling 
dew  !  Yet  it  and  all  things  do  but  sadden  me ;  and  were  it 


120  HOMES    OF    A  M  K  1U  C  A  N    A  U  T  II  O  II  S. 

not  for  Mich  friend*  as  wo  have  seen  to  clay,  the  shadows 
would  deepen  over  my  soul,  as  they  do  even  now,  while  we 
emerge  from  the  wood,  over  the  valley.  Jlut  bee  how  glo 
riously  the  sunset  touches  the  hill !  What  a  mist  of  gold  and 
purple !  And  away  yonder,  directly  in  the  eye  of  the  sunset, 
»s  the  window  of  my  chamber,  all  on  tire.  Hut  the  ocean  is 
cold,  and  those  far  eastern  sails  that  were  so  bright,  look  like 
spectres  wandering  on  the  verge  of  nothingness.  As  night 
conies  on  they  would  come  to  land,  only  that  the  watchful 
moon  is  already  preparing  to  set  her  mild  eye  upon  them 
while  we  sleep. 

Here  we  have  reached  "a  by-path  which  will  conduct  me 
by  a  shorter  way  across  the  pastures  and  beaches  to  my 
home.  And  here,  Header,  with  many  thanks  for  youi 
courtesy,  and  hoping  you  have  not  been  wearied,  I  will  bid 
you  farewell.  May  we*  meet  again  ! 


ib'fvmu^v 


William    . 


*  *"•  *4^ 

'  "';**':?            ' 

ajfc:-            -ijM'  ,.-"~' 
%niS       I 

.»^*^t*->-^    '^:'V/-';  vW>- 

|      -       '-  ---;-•  ...-_,«i'u :•.. -'""ii'jr 

•»*^iW'»  •'''""•-',-<             i    A     jfif 


PRESCOTT, 


true  idea  of  a  homo  includes  something  more  than 
a  place  to  live  in.  It  involves  oleinentA  which  are 
intangible  and  imponderable,  It  means  a  particular  spot 
in  which  the  mind  is  developed,  the  character  trained,  and 
the  affections  fed.  It  supposes  a  chain  of  association,  by 
which  mute  material  forms  are  linked  to  certain  states  of 
thought  and  moods  of  feeling,  so  that  our  joys  and  sorrows, 
our  struggles  and  triumphs,  aro  chronicled  on  the.  walls  of  a 
house,  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  or  the  alleys  of-  a  garden.  Many 


124  HOMES    OFAMEBICAN    AUTHORS. 

persons  arc  so  unhappy  as  to  pass  through  life  without  theso 
street  influences.  Their  lives  are  wandering  and  nomadic, 
and  their  temporary  places  of  shelter  are  mere  tents,  though 
built  of  brick  or  wood.  The  bride  is  brought  home  to  one 
lionise,  the  child  is  boru  in  another,  and  dies  in  a  third.  As 
we  Walk  through  the  unexpressivo  squares  of  one  of  our 
cities,  and  mark  their  dreary  monotony  of  front,  and  their 
ever-changing  door-plates,  how  few  of  thcso  houses  are  there 
that  present  themselves  to  the  eye  with  any  of  the  symbols 
ajid  indications  of  home.  These,  we  say  instinctively,  are 
i  mire  parallelograms  of  air,  with  sections  and  divisions  at 
regular  intervals,  in  which  men  may  eat  and  Bleep,  but  not 
1»V£,  in  the  largo  meaning  of  the  term.  But  a  country- 
house,  however  small  and  plain,  if  it  bo  only  well  placed, 
IH  in  the  shadow  of  a  patriarchal  tree,  or  on  the  banks  of 
a  stream,  or  in  tho  hollow  of  a  sheltering  hill,  has  more  of 
thfc  look  of  homo  than  many  a  costly  city  mansion.  In  tho 
former,  a  portion  of  nature  seems  to  have  been  Hubdued  and 
converted  to 'tho  uses  of  man,  and  yet  its  primitive  character 
to  have  remained  unchanged  ;  but,  in  tho  latter,  nature  has 
bevn  hlain  and  buried,  and  a  huge  brick  monument  erected 
to  her  memory.  We  read  that  "God  eetteth  the  solitary 
in  families."  The  significance  of  this  beautiful  expression 
dwells  in  its  last  word.  The  solitary  arc  not  set  in  hotels 
or  boarding-houses,  nor  yet  in  communities  or  phalansteries, 
but  in  families.  Tho  burden  of  solitude  is  to  be  lightened  by 
household  affections,  and  not  by  mere  aggregation.  True 
society — that  which  tho  heart  craves  and  the  character 
needs — is  only  to  be  found  at  home,  and  what  are  called 
tho  carea  of  housekeeping,  from  which  so  many  selfishly 


PRESCOTT.  12.r» 

and  indolently  shrink,  when  lightened  by  mutual  forbear 
ance  and  unpretending  Belf-sacrifice,  become  occasions,  of . 
endearment  and  instruments  of  moral  and  spiritual  growth. 
Tho  partial  deprivation  of  night  under  which  Mr.  Piv-- 
'rutt  has  long  labored,  is  now  a  fact  in  literary  history 
almost  as  well  known  as  the  blindness  of  Milton  or  the 
lameness  of  Scott.  Indeed,  many  magnify  in  their  thoughts 
the  extent  of  his  loss,  and  picture  to'themselves  the  author 
of  "  Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  as  a  venerable  personage, 
entirely  sightless,  whose  "  dark  steps  ",  require  a  constant 
u  guiding  hand,"  and  are  greatly  surprised  when  they  nee 
'this  ideal  image  transformed  into  a  figure  retaining  a  more 
than  common  >hare  of  youthful  lightness  of  movement,  and 
a  countenance  full  of  freshness  and  animation,  which  betrays 
'  to  a  casual  observation  no  mark  of  visual  imperfection,  The 
weight  of  this  trial,  heavy  indeed  to  a  man  of  literary  la-te>, 
has  been* balanced  in  Mr.  1  Vest-oil's  case  by  great  compen 
sations,  llf  has  been  happy  in  the  lioine  into  which  he 
was  born,  happy 'in  the  home  he  has  made  for  himself,  and 
happy  in  the  troops  of  loving  and  sympathi/.ing  friends 
whom  he  has  gathered  around  him.  lie  has  been  happy 
in  the  early  possession  of  that  leisure  which  has  enabled 
him  to  give  his  whole  energies  to  literary  labors,  without 
distraction  or  interruption,  and,  most  of  all,  happy  in  his 
own  genial  temper,  his  cheerful  spirit,  his  cordial  franknos, 
and  that  disposition  to  look  on  the  bright  fcidc  of  men  and 
things,  which  is  better  not  only  than  house  ami  land,  but 
than  genius  and  fame.  It  is  his  privilege,  by  no  nienn.s 
universal  with  successful  authors,  to  bo  best  valued  when- 
most  known;  and  the  graceful  tribute  which  his  intimate 


J1UMKS    OF    AM  EK  1C  AN    A  U  T  II O  K  S. 

friend,  Mr.  Ticknor,  has  paid  to  him,  in  tin-  preface  to  his 
History  of  Spanish  Literature,  that  hit*  "honors  will  always 
be/  dearest  to  those  who  have  best  known  the  discourage 
ments  under  whieh  they  hayo  been  won,  and  tlie  modesty 
and  gentleness  with  which  they  are  worn,"  is  but  an  expres- 
Mon  of  the  common  feeling  of  all  those  w  ho  know  him. 

To  come  down  to  smaller^  matters,  Mr.  1'reseott  has  beer, 
ibriunate  in  the  merely  local  influences  which  have  helped 
to  train  his  mind  and  character.  His  lines  have  fallen  to 
him  in  pleasant  places.  His  father,  who  removed  from 
Srtk-m  to  Boston  when  he  himself  was  quite  -young,  lived 
fur  many  years  in  a  house  in  Bedford-street,  now  swept 
away  by  the  march  of  change,  the  effect  of 'which,  in  a 
phi*-e  of  limited  extent  like  Boston,  is  to  crowd  the  popu 
lation  into  constantly  narrowing  spaces.  It  was  one  of  a 
rla.-s  of  houses  of  which  but  few  specimens  are  now  left  in 
«'ur  densely-settled  peninsula.  It  was  built  of  brick,  painted 
yellow,  was  square  in  form,  and  hud  rooms  on  either  hide  of 
the  front  door.  It  had  little  architectural  merit  and  no 
architectural  pretension,  But  it  sh>od  by  itself  and  was 
Hot  imprisoned  in  a  block,  had  a  few  feet  of  land  between 
the  front  door  and  the  street,  and  a  reasonable  amount  of 
breathing-space  and  elbow-room  at  the  sides  and  in  the 
rear,  and  was  hltadcd  by  some  tino-elms  and  horse-ehe*t- 
fi-.its.  It  had  a  certain  individual  character  and  expiv.-siun 
of  its  own.  Hero  Mr.  I'reseott  the  elder,  commonly  known 
and  addressed  in  Boston  as  Judge  1'ivseott,  lived  from  1S17 
to  1844,  the  year  of  his  death.  Mr.  Prescott  the  younger, 
the  historian,  upon  his  marriage,  did  not  leave  his  father's 

so  to  seek  a  new  home,  but,  complying  with  a  kindly 


PRE^COTT.  127 

custom  more  common  in  Europe,  at  least  upon  the  Conti 
nent,  than  in  America,  continued  to  reside  under  the  pater 
nal  roof,  .the  two  families  forming  one  united  and  atfection- 
ate  household,  which,  in  the  latter  years  of  Judge  Prescott's 
life,  presented  most  engaging  forms  of  age,  mature  life,  and 
blooming  youth.  As  Mr.  Preseott's  circle  of  research  grew 
moro  and  more  wide,  the  house  was  enlarged  by  the  addi 
tion  of  a  study,  to  accommodate  his  hooks  and  manuscripts, 
;md  here  lame,  found  him  living  when  she  came  to  seek  him 
alter  the  publication  of  the  "History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa 
bella."  Xo  one  of  those  who  were  HO  fortunate  as  to  enjoy 
the  friendship  of  both  the  father  and  the-  son  ever  walks 
by  the  spot  where  this  house  once  stood,  without  recalling, 
with  a  mingling  of  pleasure  and  of  pain,  its  substantial  and 
respectable  appearance,  its  warm  atmo>phere  of  welcome 
mid  hospitality,  and  the  dignified  form,  so  expressive  of 
wisdom  and  of  worth,  of  that  admirable  person  who  BO 
l.ong  presided  over  it.  This  house  was  pulled  down  a  few 
years  since,  soon  after  the  death  of  Judge  1'reseott  :  his  son 
having  previously  removed  to  the  house  in  Ueaeon-lreet, 
iu  which  he  now  lives  during  the  winter  months. 

Few  authors  have  ever  been  BO  rich  in  dwelling-places 
•as. Mr.  IVescott.  "The  truth  is,"  nays  ho  in  a  letter  to  the 
publisher,  *•  I  have  three  places  of  resilience,  among  which 
I  contrive  to  distribute  my  year.  Six  months  t  pass  in  town, 
where  my  house  is  in  Beacon-street,  looking  on  the  common, 
which,  as  you  may  recollect,  is  an  uncommonly  tine  situa 
tion,  commanding  a  noble  view  of  land  and  water." 

There  is  little  in  the  external  aspect  of  this  house  in 
Beacon-street  to  distinguish  it  from  others  in  its  immediate 


HOMES  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

vicinity.  It  is  one  of  a  continuous  but  not  uniform  block. 
It  is  of  brick,  painted  white,  tour  stories  high,  and  with  one 
of  those* swelled  fronts  which  are  characteristic  of  Boston. 
It  lias  the  usual  proportion  and  distribution  of  drawing- 
rooms,  dining-room  and  chambers,  which  are  furnished 
with  unpretending  elegance  and  adorned  with  some  por- 


f 

''''''•••  :* 


X  *'''         ^A.:^-.^.      ____  ;^.    .j-,.  '  ,  -i 

traits,  copies  of  originals  in  Spain,  illustrative  of  Mr.  Pres- 
eott's  writings.  The  most  striking  portion  of  the  interior 
consists  of  an  ample  library,  added  by  Mr.  Prescott  to  the 
rear  of  the  house,  and  communicating  with  t\io  drawing- 
rooms.  It  is  an  apartment  of  noble  size  and  lino  propor 
tions,  filletl  with  a  choice  collection  of  books,  mostly  histori 
cal,  which  hro  disposed  in  cases  of  richly-veined  and  highly- 


PKESCOTT.  120 

polished  oak.  This  room,  which  is  much  used  in  the  social 
arrangements  of  the  household,  is  not  that  in  which  Mr. 
Prescott  does  his  hard  literary  work.  A  Tmuch  smaller 
apartment,  above  the  library  and  communicating  with  it, 
is  the  working  study  —  an  arrangement  similar  to  that 
adopted-  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Abbotstbrd. 

Mr.  1'rescott's  collection  of  books  has  been  made  with 
apecial  reference  to  his  own  departments  of  inquiry,  and 
in  these  it  is  very  rich.  It  contains  many  works  which 
cannot  be  found  in  any  other  private  library,  at  least,  in 
the  country.  Besides  these,  he  has  a  large  number  of 
manuscripts,  amounting  in  the  aggregate  to  not  less  than 
twenty  thousand  folio  pages,  illustrative  of  the  periods  of 
history  treated  in  his  works.  These  manuscripts  have  been 
drawn  from  all  parts  of  Europe,  as  well  as  from  the  States 
of  Spanish  origin  in  this  country.  IFc  has  also  many  curi 
ous  and  valuable  autographs  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries. 

Nor  is  the  interest  of  this  apartment  confined  to  its 
books  and  manuscripts.  Over  the  window  at  the  northern 
end,  there  are  two  swords  suspended,  and  crossed  like  a 
pair  of  clasped  hands.  One  of  these  was  borne  by  Col. 
I'rcscott  at  Bunker  Hill,  and  tho  other  by  Capt.  Lizccn,- 
the  maternal  grandfather  of  Mrs.  Trescott,  who  commanded 
the  .British  sloop  of  war  Falcon,  which  was  engaged  in  firing 
upon  the  American  troops  on  that  occasion.  It  is  a  signifi 
cant  and  suggestive  sight,  from  which  a  thoughtful  mind 
may  draw  out  a  long  web  of  reflection.  These  swords,  once 
waving  in  hostile  hands,  but  now  amicably  lying  side  by 
hide,  symbolize  not  merely  the  union  of  families  once  op- 
0 


130  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


in  deadly  struggle,  but,  as  wo  hope  tind  trust,  the 
•mood  of  peace  which  is  destined  to  guide  the  two  great 
nations  which,  like  parted  streams,  trace  hack  their  source 
to'  the  same  parent  fountain. 

On  .entering  the  lihrary  from  .the  drawing-room,  the  vis 
itor  sees  at  first  no  egress  except  hy  the  door  through  which 
lui  had  just  passed  ;  hut,  on-  his  attention  being  called  to  a 
particular  space  in  the  populous  shelves,  he  is,  if  a.  read  ing 
man,  attracted  by  some  rows  of  portly  quartos  and  goodly 
octavos,  handsomely  bound,  bearing  inviting  names,  un 
known  to  Lowndes  or  Unmet.  On  reaching  forth  his  bund 
to  take  one  of  them  down,  he  linds  that  while  they  la-op  the 
word  of  promise  to  the  eye,  they  break  it  to  the  hope,  for 
the  et'oming  books  are  nothing  but  strips  of  gilded  leather 
pasted  upon  a  Hat  surface,  and  stamped  with  titles,  in.  the 
selection  of  which,.  Mr.  Prescott  has  indulged  that  playful 
fancy  which,  though  it  can  rarely  appear  in  his  grave  histo 
rical  works,  is  constantly  animating  his  correspondence  and 
i'OiiA'ersation.  It  is,  in  short,  a  secret  door,  opening  at  the 
touch  of  a  spring,  and  concealed  from  observation  when 
shut.  A  small  winding  staircase  leads  to  a  room  of  mode 
rate  extent  above,  so.  arranged  as  to  give  all  possible  advan 
tage  of  light  to  the  imperfect  eyes  of  the  historian.  Here 
.Mr.  Prescott  gathers  around  him  the  books  and  manuscripts 
in  use  for  the  particular  work  on  which  he  may  be  engaged, 
and  few  persons,  except  himself  and-  his  secretary,  ever  pen 
etrate  to  this  studious  retreat. 

In  regard  to  situation,  few  houses  in  any  city  are  supe 
rior  to  thi>«.  It  stands  directly  upon  the  common,  a  beau 
tiful  piece  of  ground,  tastefully  laid  out,  moulded  into  an 


PRESCOTT.  131 

exhilarating  variety  of  surface,  and  only  open  to  the  objec 
tion  of  being  too  much  cut  up  by  the  intersecting  paths- 
which  the  time-saving  habits  of  the  thrifty  Bostonians  have 
traced  across  it.  Mr.  Prescott's  house  stands  nearly  opposite 
a  niitall  sheet  of  water,  to  which  the  tasteless  name  of  Frog 
Pond  is  so  inveterately  fixed  by  long  usage,  that  it  can 
never  be  divorced  from  it.  Of  late  years,  since  the  intro 
duction  of  the  Coehituate  water,  a  fountain  haa  been  -made 
to  play  here,  which  throws  up  an  obelisk  of  sparkling  silver, 
springing  from  the  bosom  of  the  little  lake,  like  a  palm-tree 
from  the  sands,  producing,  in  its  simple  beauty,  a  fur  finer 
eifect  than  the  costly  architectural  fancies  of  Europe,  in 
which  the  water  spurts  and  h'/xles  amid  a  tasteless  crowd  of 
sprawling  Tritons  and  flopping  dolphins.  Here  a  beautiful 
spectacle  may  be  seen  in  the  long  afternoons  of  June,  before 
the  midsummer  heats  have  browned  the  grass,  when  the 
crystal  plumes  of  the  fountain  are  waving  in  the  Ime/e, 
and  the  rich,  yellow  light  of  the  slow-sinking  sun  hangs. 
in  the  air  and  throws  long  shadows  on  the  turf,  and  the 
Common  is  sprinkled,  far  and  wide,  with  well-dressed  and 
well-mannered  crowds  —  a  spectacle  in  which  not  only  the 
eye  but  the  heart  also  may  take  pleasure,  from  the  evidence 
which  it  furnishes  of  the  general  diffusion  of  material  com 
fort,  worth  and  intelligence. 

The  situation  of  the  house  admirably  adapts  it  also  for  a 
winter  residence.  The  sun,  during  nearly  his. whole  cofirse, 
plays  on  the  walls  of  the  houses  which  occupy  the  wc>hrn 
part  of  Beacon-street,  and  the  broad  pavement  in  front  is, 
in  the  coldest  weather,  clear  of  ice  and  snow,  and  offers  an 
inviting  promenade  eve.ii  to  the  long  dresses  and  thin  shoes 


HOMES    OF     AMKKltJAN     AUTUOliS. 

which  so  many  of  our  perverse  wives  and  daughters  will 
persist  in  bringing  into  the  streets.  Here,  in  the  early  day* 
of  spring,  the  timid  crocus  and  snowdrop  peep  from  the  soil 
long  before  the  iron  hand  of  winter  has  been  lifted  from  the 
rest  of  the  city.  Besides  the  near  attraction  of  the  Common, 
which  is  beautiful  in  all  seasons,  this  part  of  .Boston,  front 
ils  elevated  position,  commands  a  line  view  of  the  western 
"horizon,  including  a  range  of  graceful  and  thickly-peopled 
hills  in  Brookline  and  Koxbury.  Our  brilliant  winter  sun- 
-Hs  are  been  here  to  the  greatest  advantage.  The  whole 
western  sky  burns  with  rich  metallic  lights  of  orange,  yel 
low,  and  yellow-green ;  the  outlines  of  the  hills  in  the  clear, 
frosty  air,  are  sharply  cut  against  this  glowing  back-ground  ; 
the  wind-harps  of  the  leafless  trees  send  forth  a  melancholy 
music,  and  the  faint  stars  steal  out  one  by  one  as  the  shroud- 
nig  veil  of  daylight  is  slowly  withdrawn.  A  walk  at  this 
hour  along  the  western  hide  of  the  Common  oilers  a  larger 
amount  of  the  soothing  and  elevating  influences  of  nature 
than  most  dwellers  in.  cities  can  command.* 

Jn   this   house  in  Beacon-street,  Mr.  Prescott   lives   for 

*  The  bounty  of  our  winter  aun^ta  is,  so  fur  us  I  uiu  aware,  peculiar  to  our 
ivmntry.  It  il«-j>«-iuls  upon  u  combination  of  elomeutd  found  nowhere  el*e;  u 
low  t<  ui|»  rutuiv  with  a  brilliant  sunlight  uinl  u  transparent  atmosphere  :  the 
fiinmtti  of  Swi.l.-u  with  tho  sky  of  Italy,  lit  jinrtli.ru  Kuropo,  the  tone  of 
eolorin^  U  too  gray  and  *ulnhie»l,  an«l  tho  ahort  dny-s  <»f  wintor  louvo  but  lit 
tic  IL-lit  in  tho  air.  In  Italy,  tho  beauty  of  tho'  u  int.  r  bunsetd  H  i--i  uti:iil\ 
ill.:  KUDO  a$  that  of  the  bummer.  In  both,  tho  coloring  U  wlmt  jmintfr-s  would 
tall  warm.  But  thero  is  ponulhiit^  poculiurly  opiritual  in  the  ]>uro  li.'lit  of  otto 
i«f  our  winter  PUH-<  l.<,  in  which  tho  t't.-t  •  kccpa  down  all  tho  d m.1-  and  vapor* 
t-f  t-arth,  ami  tho  wostt-rn  hky  looks  liko  a  vault  of  cryMal,  through  which  the 
'"•!•>•  of  botno  uthrr  world  U 


PKESOOTT.  133 

about  half  the  year,  engaged  in  literary  research,  and  find 
ing  relief  from  his  studies  in  the  society  of  a  numerous 
circle  of  friends,  a  precious  possession,  in  which  no  mini 
is  more  rich.  Few  persons  in  .our  country  are  so  exclu 
sively  men  of  letters.  His  time  and  energies  are  not  at 
all  given  to  the  exciting  and  ephemeral  claims  of  the  pa- 
ing  hour,  but  devoted  to  those-  calm  researches  the  results 
of  which  have  appeared  in  his  published  works.  He  is 
strongly  social  in  his  tastes  and  habits,  and  his  manners 
and  conversation  in  society  are  uncommonly  free  from  that 
Stiffness  and  coldness  which  are  apt  to  creep  over  students,, 
and  retain  more  of  youthful  ease  and  unreserve  than  moat 
men,  whatever  be  their  way  of  life,  carry  into  middle  age. 
Jle  is  methodical  in  his  habits  of  exercise  as  well  as  of 
study,  and  is  much  given  to  long  walks,  as  in  former  years 
to  long  rides.  These  periods  of  exercise,  however,  are  not 
wholly  idle.  From  his  detective  sight  he  has  acquired  the 
habit  (not  a  very  common  one)  of  thinking  without  the  pen, 
and  many  a  smooth  period  has  been  wrought  and  polished 
in  the  forge  of  the  brain  while  in  the  saddle  or  on  foot.* 

The  occupants  of  most  of  the  houses  in  that  part  of 
Host  on  where  Mr.  PrescQtt  lives,  are  birds  of  passage.  As 
•soon  as  the  sun  of  our  short-lived  summer  puts  oil*  the  coun 
tenance  of  a  friend,  and  puts  on  that  of  a  foe,  one  by  one 

*  Mr.  I'ruacutt  inherit*  from  his  father  a  tmte  for  riding  and  walking  alone. 
For  many  years,  during  the  life  of  the  latter,  they  were  both  in  the  habit  ot 
riding  before  breakfast.  Their  lion*-*  would  be  brought  t«>  tho  din»r  ut  the. 
panic  time,  and  they  wonld  start  together,  but  one  would  take  the,  right  hand 

'     titid  one  the  h  ft.      TliM   |»eeuliarity,  -,,  \\([\t    in  uij,.-«iii  with   lii"  OtUerwUo 
lui!e*,  M  oft,  it  the  smbjeet  of  playful  banter  among  hn  friends 


HOMES    OF    AMEUICAN    AUTHOltS. 

ihey  take  their  flight.  House  utter  .house  shuts  up  its  green 
liils,  ami  resigns  itself  to  u  three  or  four  month*1  sleep.  The 
owners  distribute  themselves  among  various  places  of  retreat, 
rural,  suburban  or  marine,  more  or  less  remote.  Mr..  Prescott 
alrfo  quits  the  noise,  dust  ami  heat  of  Boston  at  this  season, 
awl  takes  refuge  fur  Home  weeks  in  a  cottage  at  Nahant. 
u  This  place,"  he  writes  to  the  publisher,  "is  a  cottage  — 
what  Lady  Kineline  Stuart  "Wort  ley  calls  in  her  4  Travels' 
•a  charming  country  villa'  at  Nahant,  where  for  more  than 
twenty  years  I  have  passed  the  summer  months,  as  it  is  the 
coolest  spot  in  New  England.  The  house  stands  on  a  huld 
rlitl',  overlooking  the  ocean,  so  near  that  in  a  storm  the  spray 
is  thrown  over  the  piaxza,  and  as  it  stands  on  the  extreme 
point  of  the  peninsula,  is  many  miles  out  at  sea.  There  is 
more  than  one  printed  account  of  Nahant,  which  is  a  remark' 
aide  watering-place,  from  the  hold  formation  of  the  coast  and 
its  exposure  to  the  ocean.  It  is  not  a  bad  place  —  this  sea 
girt  citadel  —  for  reverie  and  writing,  with  the  music  of  the 
winds  and  waters  incessantly  beating  on  the  rocks  and 
Jm»ad  beaches  below.  This  place  is  called  i  Fitful  Head,' 
and  Norna's  was  not  wilder." 

The  peninsula  of  Nahant,  which  Mr.  IVescott  has  thus 
briefly  described,  is  a  rocky  promontory  running  out  to  nea 
from  the  mainland  of  Lynn,  to  which  it  is  connected  by  a 
straight,  beach,  some  two  or  three  miles  in.  length,  divided 
into  two  unequal  portions  by  a  bold  headland  called  Little 
Jsahant.  It  juts  out  abruptly,  in  an  adventurous  and  defy 
ing,  way,  and,  laid  down  on  a  map  of  a  large  scale,  it  looks 
like  an  outstretched  arm  with  a  clenched  h'st  at  the  end  of 
U.  Thus  going  out  to  sea  to  battle  with  the  waves  on  our 


PllESCOTT. 

stormy  New-England  coast,  it  is  built  of  the  strongest  mate 
rials  which  tho  laboratory  of  Nature  can  furnish.  It  is  a 
solid  mass  of  the  hardest  porphyritie  rock,  over  which  a  thin 
drapery  of  soil  is  thrown.  At  tho  southern  extremity  this 
wall  of  rock  is  broken  into  grand,  irregular  forms,  and 
teamed  and  scarred  with  the  marks  of  innumerable  con 
flicts  A  lover  of  Nature  in  her  sterner  moods  can  find 
few  spots  of  more  attraction  than  this  presents  after  a 
south-easterly  storm.  The  dark  ridges  of  the  rapid  waves 
leap  >  upon  the  broken  flitl's  with  an  expression  so  like  that 
of  animal  rage,  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  they  are 
nut  conscious  of  what  they  are  about.  l»ut  in  an  instant 
the  gray  ma^s  is  broken  into  splinters  of  snowy  spray,  which 
glide  and  hiss  over  the  rocky  points  and  hang  their  dripping 
and  ileeey  locks  along  the  sheer  wall,  the  dazzling  white  con 
tra.- ting  as  vividly  with  tho  reddish  brown  of  the  rock,  as 
docs  the  passionate  movement  with  the  monumental  calm. 
One  is  never  weary  of  watching  so  glorious  a  spectacle,  for 
though  the  elements  remain  the  same,  yet,  from  their  com 
bination,  there  results  a  constant  variety  of  form  and  move 
ment.  Nature  never  repeats  herself.  As  no  two  pebbles  on 
a  beach  are  identical,  so  no  two  waves  ever  break  upon  a 
rock  in  precisely  the  same  way. 

The  beach  which  connects  the  headland  of  Little  Nahant 
with  the  mainland  of  Lynn,  is  about  a  mile  and  a  half  l«>ng, 
Mind  curved  into  the  finest  line  of  beauty.  At  low  tide  there 
is  a  space  t»f  some  twenty  or  thirty  rods  wide,  left  bare  by 
the  receding  waters.  This  has  a  very  gentle  inclination,  and 
having  been  hammered  upon  so  long  by  the  action  of  the 
waves,  it  is  as  hard  and  smooth  as  a  inarble  floor,  presenting. 


186  HOMES    OP    AMKUICAN    AUTHOUS, 

an  inviting  field  for  exercise,  whether  tn\  foot,  in  carriages, 
^r  on  horseback.  The  wheels  roll  over  it  in  silence  and 
leave  no  indentation  behind,  and  even  the  hoofs  of  a  gal 
loping  steed  make  hut  a  momentary  impression.  On  a  line 
bree/y  afternoon,  in  the  season,  when  the  tide  is  favorable, 
(his  beach  presents  a  most  exhilarating  spectacle,  for  the 
whole  gay  world  of  the  place  is  attracted  here;  some  in 
carriages,  some  on  horseback,  and  some  on  foot.  Kvery 
kind  of  carriage  that  American  ingenuity  has  ever  devised 
is  here  represented,  from  the  old-fashioned  family  coach, 
with  its  air  of  solid,  ehurch-and-state  respectability,  to  the 
sporting-man's  wagon,  which  looks  like  a  vehicular  taran 
tula,  all  wheels  and  no  body.  The  inspiriting  influence  of 
the  scene  extends  itself  to  both  bipeds  and  quadrupeds. 
f/Utle  boys  and  girls  race  about  on  the  fascinating  wet 
sand,  so  that  their  nurses,  what  with  the  waves  and  what 
with  the  horses'  hoofs,  are  kept  in  a  perpetual  frenzy  of 
apprehension.  Sober  pedestrians,  taking  their  "  constitu 
tional,"  involuntarily  quicken  their  pace,  as  if  they  were 
really  walking  for  pleasure  and  not  for  exercise.  The  well- 
fed  family  horse  pricks  up  his  ears  and  lifts  his  feet  lightly, 
as  if  he  felt  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  the  coolness  and  moisture 
under  them.  Fair  equestrians  dash  across  the  beach  at 
full  gallop, .their  veils  and  dresses  streaming  on  the  breeze, 
attended  by  their  own  flying  shadows  in  the  smooth  watery 
mirror  of  the  yellow  sands.  Let  the  waves  curl  and  break 
in  h>ng  lines  of  dazxling  foam  and  spring  upon  the  beach  as 
»f  they  enjoyed  their  own  restless  play  ;  sprinkle  the  bay 
with  snowy  8a,ils  for  the  setting  sun  to  linger  and  play  upon,, 
and  cover  the  whole  with  a  bright  blue  sky  dappled  with 


P  UK  SCOTT.  187 

drifting  clouds,  and  all  these  elements  make  up  so  animating 
a  scene,  that  a  man  must  bo  very  moody  or  very  apathetic 
not  to  fuel  his  heart  grow  lighter  as  ho  gazes  upon  it. 

The  position  of  Nahant,  and  its  convenient  distance  fronr 
Boston,  make  it  a  placu  of  much  resort  in  the  hot  month-* 
of  hummer.  There-  are  many  hotels  and  hoarding-houses  ; 
nnd  also  a  large  number  of  cottages,  occupied  for  the  mo*»t 
part  by  families,  the  heads  (tt*  which  come  up  to  town  every 
day  and  return  in  the  evening.  The  climate  and  scenery 
are  so  marked,  that  they  give  rise  to  very  decided  opinions. 
Many  pronounce  Xahant  delightful,  but  some  do  not  hoi- 
tat  u  to  call  it  detestable.  No  place  can  be  more  marine  and 
los  rural.  There  are  no  woods  and  very  few  trees.  There 
a/e  none  but  ocean  sights  and  ocean  sounds.  It  is  like 
being  out  at  sea  in  .a  great  ship  that  does  not  rock.  AJ» 
every  wind  blows  oil*  the  bay,  the  temperature  of  the  air 
is  very  low,  and  the  clear  green  water  looks  cold  enough 
in  a  hot  August  noon  to  make  one's  teeth  chatter,  so  that  it 
requires  some  resolution  to  venture  upon  a  bath,  and  still 
more  to  repeat  the  experiment.  The  characteristic  climate 
of  Xahant  may  be  observed  in  one  of  those  days,  not  uncom 
mon  on  the  coast  of  New  England,  when  a  sharp  east  wind 
nets  in  after  a  hot  morning.  The  sea  turns  up  a  chill  steel 
blue  surface,  ami  the  air  is  so  cold  that  it  is  not  comfortable 
to  sit  still  in  the  shade,  while  the  sky,  the  parched  grass,  thu 
clnsty  roads, .and  the  sunshine  bright  and  cold,  like  moon 
beams,  give  to  the  eye  a  strangely  deceptive  promi&e  oJ 
heat.  Under  the  calm  light  of  a  broad  full  moon,  Nahant 
puts  on  a  strange  and  unearthly  beauty.  The  nea  spark hs 
in  silver  gleams,  and  its  phosphoric  foam  is  in  vivid  con- 


laS  II  O  M  E  8    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

'  trust  with  thu  inky  shadows  of  the  dills.  Tho  ships  dart 
away  into  the  luminous  distance,  like  spectral  forms,  In 
iho  deep  stillness,  the  sullen  plunge  of  tlio  long,  breaking 
\vavca  becomes  oppressive  to  the  Kpirits.  The  roofs  of  the 
rottagcs  glitter  with  Bpirituul  light,  and  the  white  line  of 
the  dusty  road  is  turned  into  a  path  of  pearl. 

The  eottage  which  Air.  Proscott  occupies  at  Xahant  is 
built  of  wood,  two  stories  in  height,  and  lias  a  spacious 
pia/./.a  running  round  it,  which  in  lino  weather  is  much 
used  as  a  supplementary  drawing-room.  There  is  nothing 
remarkable  whatever  in  its  external  appearance.  Its  plain 
and  unassuming  aspect  provokes  neither  criticism  nor  admi- 
riition.  Its  situation  is  one  of  the  iines't  in  the  whole  penin- 
aida.  It  stands  upon  the  extremity  of  a  bold,  bluff-like  pro 
montory,  and  its  elevated  position  gives  it  the  command  of 
a  very  wide  horizon.  The  sea  makes  up  a  large  proportion 
of  the  prospect,  and  as  every  vessel  that  sails  into  or  out  of 
the  harbor  of  Boston  passes  within  range  of  the  eye,  there 
is  never  a  moment  in  which  the  view  is  not  animated  by 
ships  and  canvas.  The  pier,  where  the  steamer  which  plies 
between  Boston  and  Xahant,  lands  and  receives  her  passen 
gers,  and  the  Swallow's  Cave,  one  of  the  lions  of  the  place, 
lire  both  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  cottage. 

Mr.  Prescott  resides  at  Xahant  from  eight  to  ten  weeks, 
und  iinds  a 'refreshing  and  restorative  intluence  in  its  keenly 
bracing  sea-air.  This,  though  a  treason  of  retirement,  is  by 
no  means  one  of  indolence,  for  he  works  as  many  hours  every 
day  and  accomplishes  as  much,  here,  as  in  Boston,  his  time 
of  study  being  comparatively  free  from  those-  interruptions 
which  in  a  busy  city  will  so  often  break  into  a  scholar's 


FBKSOOTT.  ISO 

seclusion.  As  hia  lifo  at  Ntthant  tall-,  within  the  travelling 
season,  ho  receives  here  many  of  the  strangers  who  are 
attracted  to  his  presence  by  his  lift  rnry  reputation  and  tin* 
ivjn.rt  «r  his  amiable  manners;  and  this  tribute  to  celebrity, 
exacted  in  the  form  of  golden  hours  from  him  as  from  evu/v 
'distinguished  man  in  our  enterprising  and  inquisitive  aget 
*  is  paid  with  a  cheerful  good-humor,  which  ICUVCH  no  alloy  in 
the  recollections  of  those  who  have  thus  enjoyed  the  privi 
lege  of  hi*  society. 

..Mr.  'Pjvscotfs  second  remove  —  for  if  Poor  Richard's 
saying  IK*  strictly  true  he  is  burnt  out  every  year — is  from 
Xahant  to  lYppiTcll,  and  usually  happen**  early  in  Scptein- 
)u-r.  Ills  homo  in  Peppercll  is  thus  described  by  him  in  a 
letter  to  the  publisher. 

u  The  place  at  Peppercll  has  been  in  the  family  for  more 
than  a  century  and  a  half,  an  uncommon  event  among  our 
locomotive  people.  The  house  is  about  a  century  old,  the 
original  building  having  been  greatly  enlarged  by  my  father 
tirst,  and  since  by  me.  It  is  here  that  my  grandfather,  Col. 
•Win.  Prescott,  who  commanded  at  Bunker  Hill,  was  -born 
and  died,  and  in  the  village  church-yard  ho  lies  buried 
under  a  simple  slab,  containing  only  the  record  of  his  name 
and  agi1.  My  father,  AVm.  Prescott,  the  best  ami  wisest  of 
his  name,  was  also  born  and  passed  his  earlier  days  here, 
and,  from  my  own  infancy,  not  a  year  has  passed  that  I 
have  not  spent  more  or  less  of  in  these  shades,  now  hal 
lowed  to  me  by  the  recollection  of  happy  hours  and  friends 
that  are  gom-. 

"The  place,  which  is  called  'The  Highlands,'  consists  of 
'  some  two  hundred  and  fifty  acres,  about  forty-two  aniles  from 


140  HOMES    OF    A  UK  It  1C  AN    AUTUOUH.  . 

Boston,  on  the  bonier-lino  of  Massachusetts  and  New 
shire.  It  is  tv  line  rolling  country ;  and  the  IU»UM-  stands  on 
a  rising  ground  that  descends  with  a  gentle-  sweep  to  the 
Nissitissct;  a  clear  anil  very  pretty  river,  affording  pictu 
resque  views  in  its  winding  course.  A  bold  mountain  chain 
on  the  northwest,  among  which  is  the  Grand  Monadnoc,  in 
New  Hampshire,  makes  a  dark  frame  to  the  picture.  The 
laud  is  well  studded  with  trees  —  oak,  walnut,  chestnut,  and 
'maple — •distributed  in  clumps  and  avenues,  so  as  to  produce 
an  excellent  effect.  The •  maple,  in  particular,  in  its  autumn 
season,  when  the  family  are  there,  makes  a  brave  show  with 
its  gay  livery  when  touched  by  the  frost." 

To  possess  an  estate  like  that  at  IVppeivll,  which  has 
come  down  by  lineal  descent  through  .several  successions 
*if  owners,  all  of  whom  were  useful  and  honorable  men  in 
their  day  and  generation,  is  a  privilege  nof.  common  any 
where,  and  very  rare  in  a  country  like  ours,  young  in  year* 
nnd  not  fruitful  in  local  attachments.  Family  pride  may 
ho  a  weakness,  but  family  reverence  is  a  just  and  generous 
sentiment.  No  man  can  look  round  upon  fields  of  his  own 
like  those  at  Pepperell,  where,  to  a  suggestive  eye,  the  very 
forms  of  the  landscape  seem  to  have  caught  an  expression 
from  the  patriotism,  the  public  spirit,  the  integrity,  and  the 
intelligence  which  now  for  more  than  a  hundred  years  have 
Wen  associated  with  them,  without  being  conscious  of  a  rush 
of  emotions,  all  of  which  set  in  the  direction  of  honor  and 
virtue. 

The  name  of  Prescott  has  now,  for  more  than  two  hun 
dred  years,  been  known  and  honored  .in  Massachusetts. 
The  lirst  of  the  name,  of  whom  mention  is  made,  ",vtu» 


PHESCOTT.  141 

John  Prescott,  who  came  to  this  country  in  1040,  and  set 
tled  in  Lancaster.  He  was  a  blacksmith  anil  millwright  by 
trade —  a  man  of  athletic  frame  and  dauntless  resolution.: 
ami  his  strength  and  courage  were  more  than  once.  pn*  to. 
tho  proof  in  those  encounters  which  so.  often  took  place 
between  the  Indians  and  the  early  settlers  of  New  England. 
He  brought  with  him  from  England  a  helmet  and  suit  of 
armor — perhaps  an  heir-loom  descended  from  some  anee&- 
tor  who  had  fought  at  Poitiers  or  Flodden-tield  —  and  when 
ever  the  Indians  attacked  his  house  he  clothed  himself  in 
full  mail  and  sallied  out  against  them  ;  and  the  advantages 
Jie  is  reported  to  have  gained  were  probably  quite  as  much 
owing  to  the,  terror  inspired  by  his  appearance  as  to  the 
prowess  of  his  arm. 

His  grandson,  Benjamin  Prescott,  who  lived  in  iiroton, 
was  a  man  of  influence  and  consideration  in  the  colony  of 
Massachusetts.  He  represented  (iroton  for  many  years  in 
the  colonial  legislature,  was  a  magistrate,  and  an  otlieer  in 
the  militia.  In  17o,~>  he  was  chosen  agent  of  the  province  to 

.  maintain  their  rights  in  a  controversy  with  New  Hampshire 
respecting  boundary  lines,  but  declined  the  trust  on  account 
of  not  having  had  the  small-pox,  which  was  prevalent  at 
the  time. in  London.  Mr.  Edmund  Quincy,  who  was  ap 
pointed  in  his  place,  took  the  disease  and  died  of  it.  Imt, 
in  the  same  year,  the  messenger  of  fate  found  Mr.  Piv-ei.tt 
upon  his  own  farm,  engaged  in  the  peaceful  labors  of  agri 
culture.  He  died  in  August,  1735,  of  a  sudden  inilamma- 

_  Tory  attack,  brought  on  by  over-exertion,  in  a  hot  day,  t«. 
Bave  a  crop  of  grain  from  an  impending  shower.  He  was 
but  forty  years  old  at  the  time  of  his  death,  and  the  infln- 


H2  Jl  o  M  K  S    O  F    A  M  K  H  1  C  A  N    A  U  T  II.O  U  8. 

enee  ho  had  lung  enjoyed  among  a  community  slow  to  givo 
their  confidence  to  the  young,  id  an  expressive  tribute  to  his 
character  and  understanding.  Ho  had  the  further  advan 
tage  of  a  dignitied  and  commanding  personal  appearance. 
In  17«'J5,  the  year  of  hid  death,  he  received  a  donation  of 
uhout  eight  hundred  acres  of  land  from  the  town  of  (irotoit 
tor  his  services  in  procuring  a  large  territory  for  them*  from 
the  General  Court,  and  the  present  family  estate  in  IVp- 
pcrell  forms  probably  a  part  of  this  grant. 

His  second  son  was  Col.  Win.  1'rescott,  the  commander 
ot'  the  American  forces  at  the  J  tattle  of  Hunker  Hill,  who, 
after  his  fathers  death,  and  while  he  was  yet  in  his  minor 
ity,  settled  upon  the  estate  in  IVppejvll,  and  built  the  house 
which  is  still  standing.  Up  to  the  age  of  forty-nine,  his  life, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  months9  service  in  the  old  French 
war,  was  passed  in  agricultural  labors,  and  the  disc-barge  of 
those  modest  civic  trusts  which  the  influence  of  his  family, 
and  the  confidence  inspired  by  his  own  character,  devolved 
upon  him.  Joining  the  army  at  Cambridge  immediately 
after  the  uews  of  the  Concord  iight,  it  was  his  good  fortune 
to  secure  a  permanent  place  in  history,  by  commanding  the 
troops  °f  his  country  in  a  battle,  to  which  subsequent  events 
gave  a  significance  greatly  disproprotioned  both  to  the  num 
bers  engaged  in  it  and  to  its  immediate  results.  At  the  end 
of  the. campaign  of  1770,  he  returned  home  and  resumed  his 
usual  course  of  life,  which  continued  uninterrupted,  except 
that  he  >vas  present  as  a  volunteer  with  (Jen.  (Jates  at  the 
surrender  of  JJurgoyne,  Until  his  death,  in  1705,  when  he 
was  in  .his  seventieth  year.  He  was  a  man  of  vigorous 
,  not  much  indebted  to  the  advantages  of  education 


PKESCOT'T.  143 

in  early  life,  'though  ho  preserved  to  the  hint  a  taste  for 
reading.  His  judgment  ami  good  sense  were  much  esteem 
ed  by  the  community  in  which  ho  lived,  and  were  alwavs 
at  their  service  hotli  in  jnihlie  and  private  affairs.  IK'  \vji-* 

of  a  generous  temper,  and  somewhat  impaired  his  estate 
by  his  liberal  spirit  and  hearty  hospitality.  In  the  career 

•  of  Col.  Prescott  wo  see  how  well  the  training  given  bv  the 
institutions  of  New  England  tits  a  man  for  discharging  wor 
thily  the  duties  of  war  or  peace.  We  see  a  man  summoned 
from  the  plough,  and  by  the  accident  of  war  called  upon  to 
perform  an  important  military  service,  and  in  the  exercise 
of  his  duty  we  find  him  displaying  that  calm  courage  and 
sagacious  jjudgmcnt  which  a  life  in  the  camp  is  supposed  to 
be  necessary  to  bestow.  Xor  was  his  a  rare  ease,  for  as  the 
needs  of  our  revolutionary  struggle  required  such  men,  they 
were  always  forthcoming,  Xor  is  there  any  reason  to  sup 
pose  that  (V»l.  Pre'acott  himself  ever  looked  upon  his  eon- 
.  duct  on  the  seventeenth  of  June  as  any  thing  to  be  specially 
commended,  but  only  as  the  performance;  of  a  simple  piece 
of  duty,  which  could  not  have  been  put  by  without  shame 
and  disgrace.* 

*  Tin-  revolutionary  annuls  of  New  Kn^land  uhound  in  curious  ami  .  Lu., 
toiintio  uiiecdotei*,  illuMiating  the  resolute  hpirit  of  the  people,  immt  of  whi<-l» 
<;i«-  |»r4'.-t'fVi'«J  only  in  tl»«.-<-  town  kUtortti  whi<*li  contain  tiie  rc-ulls  of  niim,t« 
ih\.  -!i_raii.'ii,  ii|'j'li«.l  ton  liinit«'.l  t«  iritofy,  ami  ^uultnl  hy  a  fpiiit  of  lorul  pridt* 
anil  allVrttmi.  The  in  \v>  of  the  inaivh  «'f  tin-  liritinh  troopH  out  of  Button  c\\ 
the  niornin^  of  April  1ft,  177S,  whirh  flow  liko  u  tu-ry  crow  through  New  Knjj. 
laii-1,  ivaeUed  IVpperell  at  aliout  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon.  ('«.!.  I'rtgcott 
iuuuetliatily  euniinotieil  hin  eoinpany,  aiul  put  himself  at  their  head  and  j  i-- 
c-evd»-d  towards  Coneord,  having  la-en  joined  l»y  u  reinforcement  /join  Cri>ti>i<. 
A  meiub<-r  of  the  company  —  Abel  PiU'ker  —  was  ploughing  in  a  distant  fie|.' 


144  HOMES    OF    AMKKICAN    A  U  Til  0  US. 

Judge  Prescott,  who  died  in  Boston  in  the  month  of 
December,  1844,  at  the  age  of  eighty-two,  was  the  only 
child  of  Col.  Prescott,  and  horn  upon  tho  family  estate  at 
Peppcrcll,  Ilis  son,  in  one  of  his  previously  quoted  letters, 
*peaks  of  him  as  u  tho  best  and  wisest  of  his  name."  It 
does  not  become  a  stranger  to  their  blood  to  confirm  or  deny 
a  comparative  estimate  like  this,  but  all  who  knew  Judge 
I'rescott  will  agree  that  he  must  have  gone  very  far  who 
would  have  found  a  wiser  or  a  better  man.  Ills  active  life 
was  mainly  passed  in  the  unambitious  labors  of  the  bar;  a 
profession  which  often  secures  to  its  members  a  fair  share  of 
substantial  returns  and  much  local  influence,  but  rarely  gives 
extended  or  jiosthumous  fame.  He  had  no  taste  for  politi 
cal  life,  and  the  few  public  trusts  which  he  discharged  were 

und  dill  not  receive  the  alarm  in  boa/»on  to  atari  with  hi.-  fellow-ooldicrb ;  hut  a» 
*».,u  as  he  heard  it,  he  left  hit*  oxen  in  the  field  unyoked,  ran  In. me,  .-<  i/.-.riii.i 
gun  in  one  hand  ami  hU  hi-.-t  coat  in  tho  other,  ami  M  t  out  U|M»n  a  run  to  join 
hi-  companions,  whom  he  overtook  in  <  iroton..  After  the  departure  of  the  IVp- 
jRTell  und  firoton  troops,  these  town*  wore  left  nearly  defencelo.vi,  but  in  a  *tato 
of  i'i<  .it  unoa&iiuad  1'ioin  a  ruinorvd  approach  of  the  Uriti.-h  regular*,  In  thi.-> 
'timr^eney,  several  of  the  \\-oinen  of  the  iieighbor)uM>d  nu-t  toother,  tln-hM-d 
*h«  m-«-l\  «••*  in  the  clotlu-d  of  their  al.-«'iit  hualmmi^  and  brother*,  urm«.d  them- 
m-lv»-.s  \vith  nuihketd,  piti-hfork^,  and  biieh  weapon*  as  tlu-y  could  tiiul.  and  hav 
ing  eleeted  Mix  l>avid  Wright  of  IN'ppoiell  their  commander,  took  po.-s*-^iun 
of  a  bridge  between  1'epperell  and  (iroton,  vvhiuh  they  resolvtnl  to  maintain 
ttt^ain^t  foreign  fbrc«  or  domestic  treason.  A  jx-rnon 'HO«III  appeared  on  horse 
back,  M!IO  wad  known  to  bo  a  y.ealou*  Tory.  Ho  watt  immediately  >ei/.ed  by 
tin -r  resolute  her- tines,  unhor»ed  and  narehed,  and  Mime  tieaxmuhlu  corre- 
-.j.niideni-e  found  in  hi.s  boots.  Ho  wad  detained  pi^oiier,  and  his  dispatelu^ 
tent  to  the  Committed  of  Safety.  F»>r  thew  anecdotes,  as  well  a»  for  sonic  of 
the  btatementa  in  the  text,  I  am  indebted  to  IJutler'a  History  of  (iroton,  an  un- 
pretending  and  meritorioua  work. 


PUESCOTT.  145 

u-v-umed  rather  from  a  sense  of  duty  than  lV»m  inclination 
He  was  never  a  member  of  Congre&s,  nor  in  any  way  con 
nected  with  the  general  government,  hut  was  always  con 
tent  to  move  within  the  narrower  sphere  of  his  own  State. 
A>  a  practicing  lawyer,  no  person  ever  enjoyed  in  a  greater 
degree,  the  confidence  of  the  community  or  the  reject  of 
the  courts,  and  for  many  years  his  only  difficulty  was  how 
to  ilispottt!  of  the  great  amount  of  rosjHJUoiblc  bu.-ine>s  in 
truded  to  him,  without  injury  to  his  health.     This  rank  iit 
the,  bar  he  had  fairly  earned  both  by  a  large  measure  and 
a  haj»f»y  combination  of  moral  and  intellectual  qualities; — 
by  a  good  sen>c  and  sagacity  which   instinctively  led  him 
t->  the  right,  by  invincible  industry,  by  large  stores  of  legal 
leuruing,  by  natural  dignity  of  manner  and  a  perfect  tairnc-« 
of  mind  \\hieh  never  allowed  him  to  overstate  the  testimony 
of  a  witnev,  or  the  force  of  an  authority.    To  >ay  that  Judge 
1'iv-cott  was  a  man  of  >ense  and  sagacity  is  nut  enough,  for 
in  him  these  qualities  ripened    into  wisdom.      As  he  wa- 
never  called   upon  to  manage   public  atfairs  ujM.n  a  large 
M-ale,  or  to  draw  conclusions    from  a  Vi-ry  wide   range  of 
ob-ervatioi^  we  can  only  rea>on  from  what  we  know  to  what 
we  do  not  know,  and  infer  that  in  the  prime  of  his  facultie- 
he  would  have  proved  himself  competent  to  the  highest  tru.-t 
which  his  country  could  have  imposed  upon  him;  hut,  within 
his  >phere  of  action  and  I'.xperieiice,  hi>  judgment  command 
ed  the  greatest.  re>pecl,  wa>  sought  in  the  mo^t  ditlieult  4jue?- 
tions^  and  reposed  upon  with  the  utnio>t  confidence.    For  the 
la>t  thirty  years  of  his'life  there  was  no  one  in  llo^ton  wli«»?e 
compel  was  more  solicited  or  moiv  valued  in  important  mat 
ters,  whether  public  or  private.      lie  was  not  called 
10 


146  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN  'AUTHORS. 

like  his  fat  her,  to  servo  hit*  country  in  wnr,  but  the  walk*  of 
civic  and  peaceful  life  allow  a  man  to  show  of  what  stuff  ho 
»t»  made,  and  the  friends  of  Judge  IVcscott  knew  that  ho  had 
tJie  hereditary  eon  rage  of  his  race,  and  that  had  duty  required 
him  to  tan?  a  bristling  line  of  muskets,  ho  would  have  dour 
it  with  as  much  composure  a-  In-  e\vr  ntood  u]>  before  a  jury 
to  argue  in  behalf  of  a  client  against  whom  an  uujn-t  current 
of  popular  prejudice  was  setting. 

Tin1  resources  nf  his  mind  and  tin-  \vcli-halanccd  syiiinn •• 
tfv  «»f  his  character,  were  strikingly  si§en  in  his  declining 
years,  after  his  retirement  from  the  bar,  which  took  jilaee 
in  1S2S,  in  cuii>e(jiieiiec  of  failing  health.  The  interval  be- 
tvvedi  active  life  and  the  grave  is  apt  to  be  a  trying  period 
with  lawyers.  It  is  one  of  tin-  burden*  of  our  profes.-ion 
that  we  arc  (/Migcd  to  spend  half  our  time  in  learning  what 
we  wi>h  to  forget  the  moment  it  has  ,-i-rved  .-i»me  particular 
end.  The  brain  i"  like  an  inn  that  is  constantly  receiving 
new  guests  and  «lismis^ing  the  old.  Thus  the;  mind  of  an 
old  lawyer  is  apt  to  be  like  a  warehouse,  which  is  in  part 
empty,  ami  in  part  tilled  with  goods  of  which  the  fashion 
lias  pa-M-d  away.  l»ut  such  was  not  the  ca-e  with  Judge 
Procott.  His  social  ta>tes,  his  domestic  ailectioiis,  his  love 
i»f  general  knowledge,  and  the  interest  he  had  taken  in 
fvcry  thing  which  had  interested  the  community  in  which 
he  lived,  had  prevented  his  mind  from  lieeoming  warped 
or  narrowed  by  professional  purMiits  ;  and  when 'these  were 
no  longer  permitted  to  him,  he  passed  naturally  and  cheer 
fully  into  more  trantjuil  employments.  His  books,  his 
friends,  his  family,  tilled  up  his  hours  and  gave  healthy 
occupation  to  his  mind.  His  interest  in  life  was  not  im- 


PKK80OTT,  147 

paired,  nor  the  vigor  of  his  underatanding  relaxed,  by  the 
change. 

The  writer  of  this  sketch  had  the  privilege  of  a  personal 
acquaintaiice  with  Judge  l/rcscott  during  tho  hist  years  of 
his  lite.  His  appearance  at  that  time  was  dignified  and 
prepossessing.  lliH  figure  was  tall,  thin,  and  ulightly  In-lit  ; 
his  imivriiiciit-i  active,  and  his  frame  untouched  by  inlirm- 
ity.  His  features  wore  regular —  in  outline  and  proportion 
resembling  the  portraits  of  a  kindred  spirit,  the  late  illus-- 
triou>  John  Jay- — and  their  expression,  benevolent  and  in- 
tellcctual,  His  manners  were  simple,  but  marked  by  an 
air  of  liigh  breeding,  flowing  from  dignity  and  refinement 
of  character,  lie  was  a  perfect  gentleman,  whether  judged 
by  a  natural  or  a  conventional  standard.  A  stranger,  ad 
mitted  to  his  society,  would  at  iirst  have  been  inclined  to 
describe  him  by  negatives.  His  manner  was  not  overbear 
ing,  his  tone  was  not  dogmatical,  his  voice  was  not  loud, 
lie  was  free  from  our  bad  national  habit  of  making  strong 
assertions  and  positive  statements.  He  was  not  a  great 
talker;  nor  was  his  conversation  brilliant  or  pointed.  Hut 
he  who  had  spent  any  considerable  time  in  Judge  PrescottV 
society,  especially  if  he  had  had  occasion  to  consult  him  or 
a>k  his  advice,  would  have  brought  away  other  than  merely 
negative  impressions,  lie  would  have  recalled  the  mild 
and  tolerant  good  sense  of  his  discourse,  his  penetrating 
insight,  his  freedom  from  prejudice,  his  knowledge  of  men 
.so  unalloyed  by  the  bitterness,  the  hardness,  the  misan 
thropy  with  which  that  knowledge  is  HO  often  bought,  and 
the  natural  ease  with  which  the  stores  of  a  capacious  mem 
ory  were  brought  out,  as  the  occasion  required,  lie  would 


148  UOMES    OF    AME1UCAN    AUTIIOUS. 

have  felt  that  ho  had  been  admitted  to  the  presence  of  a 
person  of  eminent  wisdom  ami  worth,  whose  miml  moved 
in  higher  regions  than  wit  or  eloquence  alone  can  soar  to. 
Who  can  estimate  too  highly  the  privilege)  of  having  had 
>uch  a  fatlier  —  so  fitted  for  the  paternal  ollicc,  that  if  his 
.•>n  could  have  had  the  impossible  boon  bestowed  upon 
him,  of  selecting  the  parent  of  whom  he  would  have  been 
born,  ho  could  never  have  found  a  better  guide,  a  wiser 
counsellor,  a  truer  friend,  than  he  upon  whom,  in  the  provi 
dence  of  God,  that  trust  was  actually  devolved. 

The  life  of  Judge  1'rescott  was  as  happy  in  its  close  as  it 
had  been  during  its  continuance.  On  tin-  morning  of  Sunday, 
December  8th,  1814,  being  then  in  his  eighty-third  year,  ho 
died  suddenly  and  without  pain,  surrounded  by  his  family 
and  in  the  perfect  possession  of  all  his  faculties.  His  death, 
though  so  natural  an  event  at  his  advanced  age',  was  widely 
and  sincerely  mourned,  and  the  expressions  of  feeling  which 
it  called  forth,  were  proportioned  to  the  respect  and  venera 
tion  which  had  followed  him  while  living.-" 

The  town  of  Peppeivll  lies  in  the  northern  part  of  the 
county  of  Middlesex,  bordering  upon,  the  State  of  Xexv 

*  Tlio  widow  of  Judge  1'rcrtcott,  tin-  niotlirr  of  the  historian,  died  in  March, 
IS52,  at  t!i<'  »_'<•  of  eighty-four.  She  was  u  woman  of  grcatT  benovolenee,  an<l 
large,  genial  an<l  active  hympathicri.  To  the  lust,  in  wilttcr'd  cold  or  riuiiiini-r'd 
1. 1 at,  LIT  vcucrablo  form  \\;i->  coitatautly  b»'»'ii.  in  the  -iitci«  of  l^wtun,  «i.-  »>he 
wviit  about  on  foot  upon  her  cinuuU  of  charily.  She  u  ill  1><>  |.>nup  reHR'inbore*! 
autl  hihcotvly  inuiini.  ,1  by  the  \vi<lo\v  and  the  orphan,  the  poor  and  the  fricnd- 
K'*S  the  neglected  and  the  forsaken.*  She  retained  her  youthful  energy  of  fpirit 
And  fretihiic^  of  feeling  in  u  ifinarkablo  decree  to  the  Ju*t  inoinent,  and  her 
animated  smile  ond  cordial  greeting  were  always  full  of  the  sunshine  of  youtl- 


PR  E  SCOTT.  149 

Hampshire.  Its  inhabitants  uro  mostly  farmers,  cultivating 
their  own  lands  with  their  own  hands  —  a  class  of  men 
which  forms  the  host  wealth  of  a  country,  the  value  of  whom 
we  never  properly  estimate  till  we  have  been  in  regions 
where  they  have  ceased  to  exist.  The  soil  is  of  that  rea.^ona- 
hie  and  moderate  fertility,  common  in  New  Knglaml,  which 
gives  constant  motive  to  intelligent  tabor,  anil  rewards  it 
with  fair  ivturns  -a  kind  of  *oil  very  favorahle  to  the 
growth  of  the  plant,  man.  The  character  of  the  scenery  U 
pleasing,  without  any  claim  to  be  called  striking  or  pietu- 
iVMjue.  The  land  rises  and  falls  in  a  manner  that  contents 
the  eye,  and  the  distant  horizon  is  dignified  by  MHIIC  of  those 
high  hills  to  which,  in  our  magniloquent  way,  we  give  the 
name  of  mountains.  The  town  has  the  advantage  of  being 

o  n 

watered  by  two  streams,  the  Nashua  and  fhe  Nissitisset. 
The  former  is  a  thrifty  New  England  river  that  turns  mills, 
furnishes  water-power,  ami  works  for  its  living  in  a  respecta 
ble  way  ;  the  hitter  is  a  giddy  little  hteam  that  does  little 
else  than  look  pretty  ;  gliding  through  quiet  meadows 
fringed  with  alder  and  willow,  tripping  and  singing  over 
pebbly  shallows,  and  expanding  into  tranquil  pools,  gemmed 
with  white-  water-lilies,  the  purest  and  most  spiritual  of 
flowers. 

Mr.  Prescott's  farm  is  about  two  miles  from  -the  centre 
of  the  town,  in  a  region  which  has  more  than  the  average 
amount  of  that  quiet  beauty  characteristic  of  New  Knglaml 
scenery.  The  house  stands  upon  rather  high  ground,  and 
commands  an  extensive  view  of  a  gently-undulating  region, 
ino-st  of  which  is  grass  land,  which,  when  clothed  in  the 
4kglad,  light  green"  of  our  early  summer,  and  animated  with 


150  HOMES    OF    AMEKICAN    AUTHORS. 

ily ing  cloud-shadows,  presents  a  fine  and  exhilarating  pros 
pect.  As  the  farm  has  been  so  long  under  cultivation,  and 
as  fur  many  years  past  the  claims  of  taste  and  the  harvests 
nf  the  eye  have  not  heen  overlooked  in  its  management,  the 
landscape  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  house  ha* 
a  riper  and  mellower  look  than  is  usual  in  the  rural  parts  of 
New  England.  At  a  short  distance  in  front,  on  the  oppo- 
hito  side  of  the  road,  sloping  gently  down  to  the  meadows  of 
the  Nissitisset,  is  a  smooth  symmetrical  knoll,  on  which  are 
M>mc  happily-disposed  clumps  of  trees,  so  that  the  whole 
lias  the  air  of  a  scene  in  an  Knglif>h  park.  The  meadows 
and  lields  beyond  JUT  also  well  supplied  with  trees,  and 
the  morning  and  evening  shadows  which  fall  from  these, 
as  well  as  from  the  rounded  heights,  give  character  and 
expression  to  the  landscape, 

The  house  itself  has  little  to  distinguish  it  from  the  bet 
ter  class  of  New  England  farmhouses.  It  wears  our  com 
mon  uniform  of  white,  with  green  blinds;  is  long  .in  propor 
tion  to  its  height,  and  the  older  portions  bear  marks  of  age. 
Thcre'is.u  p'nuxa,  occupying  one  side  and  a  part  of  the  front. 
<Since  it  was  iirst  built  there  have  been  several  additions 
!<iude  to  it  —  some  recently,. by  Mr.  1'rescott  himself — so 
that  the  interior  is  rambling,  irregular  and  old-fashioned, 
4>ut  thoroughly  comfortable,  and  hospitably  arranged,  so  as 
to  accommodate  a  large  number  of  guests.  These  are  some- 
t-imcs  more  numerous  than  the  family  itself.  Then'  is  a  small 
fruit  and  kitchen  garden  on  the  east  side  of  the  house,  and 
on  the  west,  as  also  in  front,  is  a  grassy  lawn,  over  which 
many  young  feet  have  sported  and  frolicked,  and  some  that 
were  not  young.  \ 


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PHE8COTT.  151 

The' great  charm  of  the  house  consists  in  the  number  of 
fine  trees  by  which  it  is  surrounded  and  overshadowed! 
These  are  chiefly  elms,  oaks,  maples  and  butternuts.  Of 
these  last  there  are  some  remarkably  largo,  specimens, 
From  these  trees  the  house  derives  an  air  of  dignity  and 
grace  which  is  the  more  conspicuous  from  the  fact  that 
those  noble  ornaments  to  a  habitation  are  not  so  c<»mm<»u 
in  New  Kngland  as  is  to  be  desired.  Our  agricultural  popu 
lation  have  not  yet  shaken  oil'  those  transmitted  impression* 
derived  from  a  period  when  a  tree  was  regarded  as  an  ene 
my  to  be  overcome.  Would  that  the  farmers  of  iifty  year- 
.ago  had  been  mindful  of  the  injunction  given  by  the  dying 
Scotch  laird  to  his  son,  "  Ho  aye  sticking  in  a  tree,  Jock; 
it  will  be  growing  while  you  are  sleeping."  What  a* differ 
ent  aspect  the  face  of  the  country  might  have  been  made 
to  wear.  A  bald  and  staring  farmhouse,  shivering  in  the 
winter  wind  or  fainting  in  the  summer  sun,  without  a  rag 
of  a  tree  to  cover  its  nakedness  with,  is  a  forlorn  and  . 
unsightly  object,  rather  a  blot  upon  the  landscape  than  an 
embellishment  to  it. 

Behind  the  house,  which  faces  the  south,  the  ground' 
rises  into  a  considerable  elevation,  upon  which  there  are 
also  several  line  trees.  A  small  oval  pond  is  nearly  sur 
rounded  by  a  company  of  .graceful  elms,  which,  with  their 
lender  branches  and  pensile  foliage,  suggest  to  a  fanciful 
eye.  a  group  of  wood-nymphs  smoothing  their  locks  in  the 
mirror  of  a  fountain.  At  a  short  distance,  a  clump  of  oaks 
and  chestnuts,  which  look  as  if  they  had  been  sown  by  the 
hand  of  ait,  have  formed  a  kind  of  natural 'arbor,  the  shade 
of  which  is  inviting  to  meditative  feet.  Under  these  trees 


lf>2  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Mf.  Prcscott  has  passed  many  studious  hours,  and  his 
a*  lie  has  paced  to  and  fro,  have  worn  a  perceptible  path  in 
the  turf.  A  few  rod*  from  the  house,  towards  the  east,  is 
another  and  larger  pond,  near  which  is  a  grove  of  vigorous 
oaks;  and,  in  the  same  direction.,  about  .half  a  mile  farther, 
is  an  extensive  piece  of  natural  woodland,  through  which 
winding  paths  are  traced,  HI  which  a  lover  of  nature  may 
H»OII  bury  himself  in  primeval  shades,  under  broad-armed 
trees  which  have  witnessed  the  stealthy  step  of  the  Indian 
Juintcr,  and  shutting  out  the  sights  and  sounds  of  artificial 
life,  hear  only  the  rustling  of  leaves,  the  tap  of  a  wood 
pecker,  the  dropping  of  nuts,  the  whir  of  a  partridge,  or 
the  iron  call  of  a  sentinel  crow. 

The  house  is  not  occupied  by  the  family  during  the 
heats  of  summer;  but  they  remove  to  it  as  soon  as  the  cool 
morn  ings,  and  evenings  proclaim  that  summer  is  over.  The 
region  is  one  which  appears  *to  peculiar  advantage  under  an 
autumnal  sky.  The  slopes  and  uplands  are  gay  with  the 
orange  and  crimson  of  the  maples,  the  sober  scarlet  and 
brown  of  the  oaks,  and  the  warm  yellow  of  the  hickories. 
A  delicate  gold-dust  vapor  hangs  in  the  air,  wraps  the  val 
leys  in  dreamy  folds,  and  soOens  all  the  distant  outlines. 
The  bracing  uir  and  elastic  turf  invite  to  long  walks  or 
rides,  the  warm  noons  are  delightful  for  driving  ;  and 
the  country  in  the  neighborhood,  veined  with  roads  and 
lanes  that  wind  and  turn  and  make  no  haste  to  come  to 
an  end,  is  well  suited  for  all  these  forms  of  exercise.  There 
is  a  boat  on  the.Nissitisset  for  those  who  are  fond  of  aqua 
tic  excursions,  and  a  closet-full  of  books  for  a  rainy  day. 
Among  these  are  two  works  which  seem  in  perfect  unison 


PRE8COTT.  153 

with  tlio  older  portion  of  the  house  and  its  ancient  furni 
ture — Theobald's  Shalcspeare  and  an  early  edition  of  the 
Spectator  —  both  bound  in  snuff-colored  calf,  and  printed 
on  paper  yellow  with  ago ;  and  the  latter  adorned  with 
those  delicious  copperplate  engravings  which  perpetuate  u 
costume  so  ludicrously  absurd,  that  the  wonder  is  that  the 
.wearers  could  ever  have  left  olf  laughing  at  each  other  long 
enough  to  attend  to  any  of  the  business  of  life.  AVhen  the 
cool  evenings  begin  to  set  in  with  something  of  a  wintry 
chill  in  the  air,  wood-fires  are  kindled  in  the,  spacious 
chimneys,  which  animate  the  low  ceilings  with  their  re  it- 
less  gleams,  and  when  they  have  burned  down,  the  dying 
embers  ditfuse  a  ruddy  glow,  which  is  just  the  light  to  tell 
a  ghost-story,  by,  such  as  may  befit  the  narrow  rambling 
passages  of  the  old  farmhouse,  and  send  a  rosy  cheek  t<> 
bed  a  little  paler  than  usual. 

AVhile  Mr.  1'reseott  is  at  IVppercll,  a  portion  of  every 
day  is  given  to  study;  and  the  remainder  is  spent  in  long 
walks  or  drives,  in  listening  to  reading,  or  in  the  social  cir 
cle  <it'  his  family  and  guests.  Under  his  roof  (herd  is  always 
house-room  and  heart-room  for  his  own  friends  and  those  of 
his  children.  Indeed,  he  has  followed  the  advice  of  Home 
wise  man — Dr.  Johnson,  perhaps,  upon  whom  all  vagrant 
scraps  of  wisdom  are  fathered  —  and  kept  his  friendships  In 
repair,  making  the  friends  of  his  children  his  own.  friends. 
There  are  many  persons,  not  members  of  the  family,  who 
have  become  extremely  attached  to  the  place,  from  Ihe 
happy  hours  they  have  spent  there.  There  may  be  seen 
upon  the  window-sill  of  one  of  the  rooms  a  few  lines  in 
pencil,  by  a  young  lady  whose  beauty  and  sweetness  make 


154  HOMES    OF    A  M  K  11 1  C  A  K    A  U  T II O  U  25. 

her  a  great  favorite  among  her  friends,  expressing  her  -.sense 
of  a  delightful  visit  made  there,  some  two  or  three  years 
bince.  Had  similar  reeords  been  left  by  all,  of  the  happy 
days  passed  under  this  roof,  the  walls  of  the  house  wojuld 
be  hardly  enough  to  hold  them. 

And  this  sketch  may  be  iitly  concluded  with  the  expres- 
hiou  of  nu  earnest  wish  that  thus  it  may  long  be.  May  the 
future  be  like  the  past.  May  the  hours  which  pass  over 
a  house  honored  by  so  much  worth  and  endeared  by  so 
much  kindness,  bring  with  them  no  other  .sorrows  than 
Much  as  the  providence  of  God  has  inseparably  linked  to 
our  mortal  state  —  such  as  soften  and  elevate  the  In-art, 
and,  by  gently  weaning  it  from  earth,  help  to  ''dress  the 
soul"  for  its  new  home. 


In  reply  to  the  publisher's  request  for  a  page  of  Mr. 
1'rescott'tj  manuscript,  to  be  copied  in  fac-simile,  the  fol 
lowing  interesting  note  has  been  received : 


'•  NAJIXNT,  July  0,  18'>_». 
•'  MY  in-: AU  Siu : 

"As  you  desire,  1  send  you  a  specimen  of  my  autograph. 
It  is  the  concluding  page  of  one  of  the  chapters  of  the 
••Conquest  of  Peru" — Hook  111.,  Cap.  «'J.  The  writing  is 
-not,  as  you  may  imagine, made  by  a  pencil,  but  is  indelible, 
being  made  with  an  apparatus  used  by  the  blind,  This  is 
a  very  simple  atfair,  consisting  of  a  frame  of  the  ai/.e  of  a 
common  sheet  of  letter-paper,  with  brass  wires  inserted  ri 


PRESCOTT,  '    155 

*  it  to  correspond  with  the  number  of  lines  wanted.     On  one 
side  of  this  frame  is  pasted  a  leaf  of  thin  carbonated  paper, 
such  as  is  used  to  obtain  duplicates.     Instead  of  a  pen,  the 
writer  makes  use  of  a  stylus,  of  ivory  or  agate,  the  last  bct- 

•  ter  or  harder.    The  great  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a  blind 
man's  writing   in   the   usual    manner,  arise   from    his   not 
knowing  when  the  ink  is  exhausted  in  his  pen,  and  when 
his  'lines  run  into  one  another.      Both  difficulties  are  obvi-    v 
nted  by  this  simple  writing-case,  which  enables  one  to  do 
his  work  as  well  in  the  dark  as  in  the  light.     Though  my 
trouble  is  not  blindness,  but  a  disorder  of  the  nerve  of  the 
eye,  the  effect,  as  far  as  this  is  concerned,  is  the  Fame,  and  1 
am  wholly  incapacitated  for  writing  in  the  ordinary  way. 
In  this  manner  I  have  written  every  word  of  my  /</V<W< •<//*. 
This  imnln$  opt •  iwmli  exposes  one  to  some  embarrassments; 
for,  as  one  cannot  see  what  he  is  doing  on  the  other  side  of 
the  (taper,  any  more  than  A  performer  in  the  treadmill  sees 
what  he  is  grinding  on  the  other  Hide  of  the  wall,  it  become* 
very  difficult  to  make  corrections.    This  requires  the  subject 
to  be  pretty  thoroughly  canvassed  in  the  mind,  and  all  the 
blots  and  erasures  to  be  made  there  before  taking  up  the 

.-.pen,  or  rather  the  stylus.  This  compels  me  to  go  over  my 
composition  to  the. extent  of  a  whole  chapter,  however  long 
it  may  be,  several  times  in  my  mind  before  Betting  down  - 
to  my  d'esk.  When  there,  the  work  becomes  one  of  memory 
rather  than  of  creation,  and  the  writing  is  apt  to  run  olf 
glibly  enough,  A  letter  which  I  received  some  years  since 
fr<»m -the  French  historian,  Thierry,  who  is  totally  blind, 
urged  me  by  all  means  to  cultivate  the  habit  of  dictation, 
to  which  he  had  resorted;  and  James,  the  eminent  novelist, 


150  110  ME  8    OF    AME1UCAN    AUTHORS. 

who  has  adopted  his  habits,  finds  it  favorable  to  facility  of 
composition.  Hut  I  have  been  too  long  accustomed  to  my 
own  way  to  change.  And,  to  say  truth,  I  never  dictated  a 
Kentence  in  my  life  for  publication,  without  its  falling  so  ilat 
nil  my  ear  that. I  felt  almost  ashamed  to  send  it  to  the  piv>s. 
I  suppose  it  is  habit. 

"One  thing  I  may  add.  My  manuscript  is  usually  too 
illegible  (I  have  scut  you  a  favorable  specimen)  for  the 
press,  a  lid  it  is  always  fairly  copied  by  an  amanuensis 
1  Before  it  is  consigned  to  the  printer.  I  have  accompanied 
ihe  autograph  with  these  explanations,  which  are  at  your 
service,  if  you  think  they  will  have  interest  for  your  read 
ers.  My  modus  operand*  has  the  merit  of  novelty,  at  least 
I  have  never  heard  of  any  history  monger  who  has  adopted 
it  besides  myself. 

"  I  remain,  dear  Sir, 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

44  WM.  II.  FKKSCUTT." 


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C.  M.  SEDGWICK, 


I)KU1[APS  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Home  should 
be  the  prominent  idea  oil  Miss  Sedgwiek'rj  mind,  through 
out  a  literary  career  which  lias  made  her  name  dear  to  !u-i 
country.  Kvery  novel,  and  essay,  and  touching  story  that 
lias  ever  fallen  from  her  pen  —  we  choose  our  words  advis 
edly,  to  express  the  graceful  ease  which  characterizes  Ju-r 
writings  —  has  the  thought  of  Home,  like  a  sweet  under-1 
song,  beneath  all  the  rich  foliage  of  fancy  and  gleams  «>f 
heroic  feeling.  Her  heroines  arc  rich  in  home  qualities; 
her  plots  all  revolve  round  the  home  centre";  her  Lints 
touch — gently  or  strongly  —  on  the  sacrifices  and  errors 
that  make  home  happy  or  miserable.  In  those  admirable 
stories  that  seem  like  letters  from  an  observing  friend- — 
those,  we  mean,  that  have,  an  .avowed  moral  purpose,  like 
".Live  and  let  Live,"  the  u  Uieh  poor  Man  and  poor  IJich 
Man" — imagination  and  memory  are  evidently  talked  tor 
i- very  phase  of  common  social  experience  that  can  by  exam 
ple  or  contrast  throw  light  upon  the  great  problem —*•  liow  to 


tOO  UOMKS    OF    AM  Kit  1C  AN     AlTiloKS. 

make  a  happy  houw  under  disadvantages  both  of  fortune 
utiil  character.  She  might  be  well  painted  us  u  priestess 
tending  the  domestic  altar  —  shedding  light  upon  it  —  set 
ting  its  holy  symbols  in  order  due,  and  hanging  it  with 
votive  wreaths,  that  may  both  render  it  proper  honor,  and 
attract  the  careless  or  the  unwilling.  It*  all  lady-writcis 
who  could  boast  masculine  understanding  had  possessed 
also  the  truly  feminine  spirit  which  breathes  throughout 
Miss  Scdgwick's  writings,  even  where  they  are  strongest 
and  boldest"  lor  truth  and  virtue,  bonic  of  the  satire  which 
lias  pursued  the  gentler  sex  when  they  have  ventured  to 
practise  the  "  gentle  craft,"  might  have  been  spared.  \Ve 
are  ready  to  gay,  when  we  read  Miss  Sedgwick — "True 
woman,  true  teacher,"  since  no  true  teaching  is  accompli>h- 
d  without  Love. 

Besides  this  home  charm,  Miss  JSedgwick's  writings  have 
no  little  value  jis  natural  pictures  ;  and  pictures,  too,  of  a 
transition  state,  of  which  it  will  be,  at  ho  distant  day,  ditli- 
eult  to  catch  the  features,  except  through  the  delineations 
:if  contemporary  novelists.  That  great  photograph,  the 
newspaper,  gives  back  the  features  of  the  time  with  severer 
accuracy;  but  as  the  portrait  is  to  the  daguerreotype,  so 
is  the  novel  to  the  newspaper.  Miss  Sedgwick  and  Mr. 
i'ooper  may  Ije  considered  pioneers  in  this  excellent  work — 
the  delineation  of  American  life  and  character,  with  proper 
accompaniments  of  American  scenery.  The  homely  rural 
lite  of  our  country  appears  in  the  New  England  Tale 
umler  a  touch  as  delicate  as  skilful,  while  the  manes  of 
our  forefathers  are  shadowed  forth  in  "-Hope  Leslie,"  wiilt 
a  loving  truthfulness  for  which  old  chronicles  vouch  amply. 


MISS    3  EDO  WICK.  Itil 

National  feeling  U  strong  in  Miss  Sedgwick,  aiul  she  is 
neither  meanly  athamed  of  it  nor  weakly  inclined  to  parade 
it.  It  comes  out  because  it  is  there,  aril,  not  because  it  is 
called  for.  Foreign  travel  has  not  stilled  it,  nor  much  in 
tercourse  with  the  high  civilization  of  older  countries  tinged 
it  with  sadness  or  made  it  morose.  Ever  kind  and  hopeful, 
it  still  disdains  flattery,  and  while  it  loves  and  praises  gener 
ously,  it  is  not  afraid  to  condemn  with  equal  justice.  Our 
western  world  is  so  sensible  of  this  kindness  and  this  itrm- 
ne-ss,  that  although  it  id  prone  to  resent  even  clearer  truths, 
especially  when  they  grate  on  national  vanity,  it  hears  Mi.--. 
Sedgwick  always  with  something  more  than  patience  and 
respect. 

In  delineating  individual  character,  it  is  possible  to  let 
an  amiable  disposition  lower  the  contrasts  which  are  essen 
tial  to  vigorous  impressions.  This  occasions  the  only  fault 
wo  are  disposed  to  tiud  w.ith  Miss  Scdgwiek's  novels.  They 
lack  strongly-marked  character ;  they  smooth  rough  points 
too  much  ;  they  hesitate  at  horrors,  moral  ones  at  least.  If 
the  world  were  really  made  up  of  so  large  a  proportion  of 
pretty  good  people,  with  a  sprinkling  of  angel?-,  ami  only 
now  and  then  a  compunctiously  half-bad  man  or  woman, 
novels  would  never  have  been  written,  or  if  they  had,  would 
hardly  have  become  one  of  the  elixirs  to  so  great  a  portion 
of  the  weary  children  of  earth.  The  imagination  is  not  satis- 
tied  with  truth,  it  asks  the  stimulus  of  high-wrought  truth* — 
unusual  —  distinct  —  startling.  It  will  not  do  for  a  writer  to 
be  too  restrictedly  conscientious  in  this  matter.  If  it  he 
true  that  *"]<:  i^rai  n\*t  JMX  to itjvtt >•*  lc  rraixcinlhillc"  it  ia 
also  true  that  the  "  CMtstmlhM'c"  does  not  include  the  entire 
-  11 


1G2  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


l"."  With  this  single  complaint  of  unnecessary  "toning 
down,"  lot  us  dismiss  the  ungracious  tusk  of  fault-finding. 

To  make  virtue  lovely,  is  one  of  the  achievements  of  the 
good.  To  draw  such  pictures  of  excellence  as  shall  incite 
to  imitation,  is  far  less  easy,  if  more  pleasant,  than  to  ddsli 
off  vice  and  crime  hy  wholesale  with  the  intent  of  warning. 
Hugbeara  have  little  power  after  the  hread  and  butter  age, 
while  Helf-sacritice,  tenderness  and  heroism  possess  —  Ifeaveu 
be  praised  for  it  —  undying  interest,  and  always  find  some 
sensitive  chords  even  in  the  mind  most  sadly  unstrung. 
Here  we  indicate  Miss  Sedgwick's  forte  —  it  is  to  touch  the 
heart  by  examples  of  domestic  goodness,  not'  so  exalted  as 
to  preclude  emulation,  but  so  exquisitely  human  and  natural 
as  to  call  up  all  that  is  best  and  sweetest  in  the  heart's  im 
pulses,  and  throw  us  back  upon  ourselves  with  salutary  com 
parisons  and  forward  with  pure  resolutions.  We  have  heard 
the  remark  from  those  well  qualified  to  judge,  that  Miss  Sedg- 
wick's  writings  had  done  much  towards  prompting  aspiration 
and  high  resolve  in  young  men  ;  how  much  wider  must  have 
been  her  influence  over  her  own  sex  —  over  the  daughters  and 
the  mothers  of  her  country  !  Here  is  wherewithal  not  to  boast, 
but  to  be  thankful  ;  occasion  —  not  for  pride,  but  for  sell-con 
secration  ;  and  as  such  we  doubt  not  Miss  Sedgwick  looks. 
upon  her  great  success.  Even  on  the  wide  field  of  our  com 
mon  schools,  the  influence  of  that  excellent  manual,  "Means 
and  Ends,"  is  daily  felt  ;  and  we  can  desire  nothing  better 
than  that  every  American  girl,  whatever  her  position  in  life, 
may  be  prompted  by  it  to  "  self-training,"  on  the  best  plan 
and  the  best  principles. 

If  it  could  be  conceded  that  the  character  of  'every  writer 


MISS     SEDGWICK.  103 

is  legibly  impressed  on  his  works,  we  need  say  nothing  of 
that  of  Miss  Sedgwiek.  But,  though  it  may  be  true  that  a- 
inan  always  "writes  himself  down"  to  some  extent,  unhappy 
instances  are  not  wanting  to  prove  that  we  may  sometime* 
grossly  mistake  the  true  character  of  a  professor  of  tender 
r-ensibilities,  or  heedlessly  ascribe  the  rough  or  self-depreei- 
ating  expressions  of  a  humorist  to  harshness  or  want  of  feel 
ing.  Jt  would  be  invidious  to  point  out  examples  of  this  at 
any  time  near  our  own,  and  Sterne  has  been  too  often  cited, 
lint  we  may  remark  that  a  tender,  humane  and  generous 
character,  at  once  gentle  and  courageous,  modest  and  inde 
pendent —  is  impressed  on  the  whole  series  of  Miss  Scd«^ 
wick's  works,  we  might  almost  say  on  every  page  of  them-. 
She  makes  few  professions,  or  none;  she  -speaks  in  her  own 
person  only  with  reluctance  ;  her  sketches  of  exalted  good 
ness  are  free  from  all  taint  of  parade  ;  yet  against  her  will 
we  see  her  own  heart  and  habits  through  whatever  veil  of 
fictitious  form;  we  need  never  ask  what  manner  of  woman 
is  this  ;  we  can  feel  the  very  beaming  of  her  eye  when  she 
utters  high  thoughts,  and  we  never  for  a  moment  doubt  that 
when  our  hearts  are  stirred,  hers  is  stirred  also. 

At  least  it  is  so  with  us  who  know  her.  Perhaps  we  are 
poor  judges  of  what  strangers  may  think  on  this  point.  To 
her  friends,  the  very  lines  of  "Miss  Sedgwick's  harmonious 
face  accord  sweetly  with  the  spirit  of  all  she  has  written.- 
A\re  read  there  such  a  sympathy  with  suffering,  such  ardor 
in  the  causo  of  struggling  virtue,  as  will  allow  lier  no  sell- 
complacent  ease  when  action  is  called  for.  Outlines  which 
might  well  by  the  careless  observer  be  called  aristocratic, 
her  friends  more  justly  denominate  noble,  since  to  them 


1IOMK.S    OF    AMEItlOAN    AUTJIOltS. 

they  express  feelings  to .  which  nothing  that  belongs  to 
humanity  can  bo  indifferent.  It  is  beautiful  to  BOO  elegant 
tastes  and  habits  of  the  greatest  refinement  no  hindrance  to 
a  truly  democratic  respect  for  the  lowest  and  care  for  the 
worst.  Hers  is  not  the  goodness  which  the  French  aptly 
t^rni  mttxyttct',  which  requires  that  its  objects  be  fashionable 
or  picturesque,  The  high-toned  sympathy  which  lent  itself 
so  gracefully  and  naturally,  as  well  as  with  such  excellent 
ivsults,  to  the  exalted  aims  of  Kossuth,  becomes  lowly  pity 
and  a  kindness  that  nothing  can  shock  when  its  object  is  a 
wretched  woman,  released  from  prison  only  to  undergo  the 
heavier  penance  of  universal  contempt  and  avoidance.  If 
MissSedgwick  had  never  become  celebrated  as  41  writer,  it  is 
of  her  humanity  that  those  who  know  her  would  have  spoken 
as  her  leading  trait  ;  and  in  her  humanity  the  care  of  her 
own  sex  occupies  the  leading  place,  as  is  meet.  Sympathy 
with  the  unhappy  disputes  the  empire  of  her  heart  with  that 
attachment  to  family  and  friends  which  accords  so  well  with 
her  efforts  to  glorify  the  private  home  in  the  public  estima 
tion.  We  can  regret  this  overflowing  aiiectionateness  only 
on  one  account  —  because  the  demands  of  generosity,  pity 
and  friendship,  upon  Miss  Sedgwick's  time  and  powers,  1-eave 
her  little  leisure  for  the  production  of  new  works  which 
would  both  delight  and  improve  society  at  large.  May 
long  life  and  health  be  granted  her,  to  do  all  that  her  vig 
orous  intellect  can  devise  and  her  kind  heart  desire! 


To  the  above  appreciative  and  genial  bketch  by  a  kin 
dred  spirit,  the  editor  has  merely  to  add  these  personal  facts 
from  Mr,  Griswold's  u  Prose  Writers": 


MISS    SEDGW1CK.  165 

"  Miss  SKIXJWICK  wa.s  one  of  tlio  first  American*  of  her 
sex  who  were  distinguished  in  the  republic  oi'  letters,  ami 
iu  the  generous  rivalry  of  women  of  genius  which  mark* 
the,  present  ago,  she  continues  to  occupy  a  conspicuous  and 
most  honorable  position.  Slie  is  of  a  family  which  has  con 
tributed  some  of  its  brightest  names  to  Massachusetts.  Her 
father, -who  was  descended  from  one  of  the  major-generals 
in  the  service  of  Cromwell,  enjoyed  a  high  reputation  as  a 
statesman  and  a  jurist,  and  was  successively  an  oilicer  in  the 
revolutionary  army,  a  representative  and  senator  in  Congress, 
and  a  judge  of  the  supremo  court  of  his  state.  Jler  brother 
Henry,  who  died  in  1S81,  was  an  able  lawyer  and  political 
writer,  and  another  brother,  the  late  Theodore  Stdgwick. 
was  al>o  distinguished  as  a  statesman  and  an  .author.* 

"  Miss  Sedgwiek  was  born,  in  the  beautiful  rural  village 
of  Stockbridge,  on  the  river  Ilousatonic,  to  which  her  father 
had  removed  in  17*7.  Judge  Sedgwick  died  in  1SIH,  before 
bis  daughter  had  given  any  indication*  of  literary  ability, 
but  her  brother  Henry,  who  had  been  among  the  first  to 
appreciate  the  genius  of  Bryant,f  soon  discovered  and  en 
couraged  the  development  of  her  dormant  powers:  The 
earliest  of  her  published  works  was  the  New  England  Tale, 
•originally  intended  to  appear  as  a  religious  tract,  but  which 

*  The  most  fonH<]«-rahle  work  of  Mr.  Si-ilgwit-k  M  hi*  1'uMk  ainl  Private 
IV'Mjomy,  iu  throe  M<luiii<-,  |.ul.li-h.  .1  1,\  H.u  ]..!-. 

f  It  wus  oh'u-fly  tlii-oiiL'li  the. influence  of  Henry  Sinl^xvick'd  |'icr.tua>i«ni.t  that 
Mr.  Uryaut"  wtu>  imluci-.l  to  rciimvc  to  N»-\v-York,  fr*»i»  tho  neighboriug  viHagi 
«»f  rircut  Uiiriiugfoii,  wliom  he  wa.s  ou^a^t-J  ia  tho  uncongenial  jaiiauits  of  a 
I'irtinlry  lawyer;  an«l  it  was  through  Mr.  Scdgwick*!  inoaasj  that  lie  first  b 
r«iuit«-i'ti-<l  with  the 


166          HOMES  OF   A  MI;  in  CAN    AUTUOUS. 

grew  beyond  tliu  limits  of  such  ;i  design,  and  \\  a*  given  to 
the  world  in  a  volume  in  1822.  This  was  followed,  in  1824, 
by  •  Redwood,'  a  novel  which  was  immediately  and  widely 
popular;  in  1827  by  'Hope  Leslie,  or  Kurly Times  in  Massa 
chusetts,'  by  which  her  reputation  was  yet  more  extended  ; 
in  1X30  by  'Clarence,  a  Tale  of  our  own  Times/  which  was 
inferior  in  merit,  though  received  with  equal  favor;  in  1832 
by  '  Le  Bossu,'  one  of  the  Tal.es  of  the  Glauber  Spa,  and  in 
1X35  by  'The  Linwoods,  or  "Sixty  Years  Since"  in  Amer 
ica,'  the  last  and  in  some  respects  the  best  of  her  novels.  In 
the  same  year  she  also  published  a  collection  of  tales  and 
sketches  which  had  previously  appeared  in  various  peri 
odicals. 

44  In  1834  Miss  Sedgwick  gave  the  public  the  iiist.  of  a 
new  and  admirable  series  of  illustrations  of  common  life, 
under  the  title  of  'Home,'  which  was  followed  in  1S3({  by 
4  Hie  Poor  Rich  Man  and  the  Rich  Poor  Man,' and  subsc- 
•juently  by  4  Live  and  Let  Live'  and  'Means  and  Ends,  or 
Self-training,'  'A  Love  Token  for  Children,'  and  'Stories 
for  Young  Persons.' 

"  In  the  spring  of  1830  she  went  to  Europe,  and  hi  the 
year  which  she  spent  in  travelling,  wrote  her  'Letters  from 
Abroad  to  Kindred  at  Home,'  which  were  published  in  two 
volumes  soon  after  her  return. 

"Besides  the  works  already  mentioned,  Miss  Sedgwick 
has  written  a  Life  of  laierctia  M.  Davidson,  and  many  con 
tributions  to  annuals  and  literary  magazines. 

44  Miss  Sedgwick  has  marked  individuality.  She  e«nii- 
mands  as  much  respect  by  her  virtues  as  she  does  admira 
tion  by  her  talents.  Indeed,  the  rare  endowments  of  her 


MISS    SEDQWICK.  167 

mind  depend  in  an  unusual  degree  upon  the  moral  qualities 
with  which  they  are  united  fur  their  value.  She  writes 
with  a  higher  object  than  merely  to  amuse.  Animated  by 
a  cheerful  philosophy,  and  anxious  to  ]*mr  its  sunshine  int«« 
every  place  where  there  5*  lurking  care  or  suffering,  »hc 
;»elccts  for  illustration  the  scenes  of  every-day  experience, 
paint*  thorn  with  exact  fidelity,  and  seeks  to  diffuse  over 
tin-  minu  a  delicious  .serenity,  and  in  the  heart  kind  feeling* 
and  bvinpathies,  and  wise  ambition,  and  steady  hope.  A 
truly  American  .-q/irit  pervades  her  works.  She  speaks  of 
our  country  as  one* where  the  government  and  institutions 
are  based  on  the  tjit*)*.l  prineijtle  of  equal  rights  and  equal 
privileges  to  all,'  and  denies  that  honor  ami  shame  depend 
upon  condition.  She  is  the  champion  of  the  virtuous  poor, 
ami  Delecting  her  heroes  and  heroines  from  humble  life,  does 
not  deem  it  necessary  that  by  tricks  UJMHI  them  in  the  cradle 
'  they  have  been  only  temporarily  banished  from  a  patrician 
ra-te  and  estate  to  which  they  were  bom. 

••  Her  htylc.  is  colloquial,  picturesque,  and  marked  by  a 
facile  grace  which  is  evidently  a  gift  of  nature.  Her  char 
acters  are  nicely  drawn  and  delicately  contrasted.  Her 
l)ehorah  Lenox  has  remarkable  merit  as  a  creation  and  as 
an  impersonation,  and  it  is  perfectly  indigenous.  The  same 
can  be.  said  of  several  others.  Mi>s  Sedgwiek's  delineations 
of  Xew  Kngland  manners  are  decidedly  the  best  that  have 
appeared,  and  show  both  a  careful  study  and  a  just  appreci-* 
ation." 


Miss  Sedgwick  has  passed  much  of  her  time  at  Stock- 
bridge,  where  >he  was  born,  and  where  the  family  of  her 


168  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

late  brother  Theodore  continues  to  reside.  Uut  of  late  year* 
her  home  has  been  divided  between  the  residence  of  her 
friends  in  New-  York  and  that  of  her  brother  Charles,  at 
Lenox,  Herk-hire  county,  Ma—.  A  description  of  her  pa 
rental  home  has  been  kindly  eounnunicated  by  the  oncr«if 
all  others,  who  could  do  it  bc*t  : 

"  A  comfortable  rural  man-ion,  home  till  y  f»  ft  Mjuare, 
built,  without  architectural  adornment:-,  lor  the  modest 
wanN  of  a  country  gentleman  of  '  nixty  yc-ars  since,1  is 
here  prc-eiitcd,  faithfully,  fn»m  a  sketch  made  by  one  of 
his  defendants,  who  lives  .-till  at  the  old  homestead,  en 
riching  by  her  daily  life  its  -acred  a—  ociation^. 

"The  view  is  taken  from  the  meadow  below  the  south 
entrance  of  the  hou-c,  and  admits  a  few  only  of  the  tret-* 
that  on  every  other  side  shelter  ami  oh.-ctirc  it,  ami  under 
whose  .shadows  the  fourth  generation  from  him  who  planted 
them  now  plays. 

••A  small  curve  of  the  semicircular  K!O|H?  from  *  Stork- 
bri«l^»-  jilain/  on  which  the  hou-e  stands,  a  jn'rce  of  the  rieli 
alluvial  meadow  lHkl«>w  it,  and  a  ^liiiij»-e  of  the  Ilou.-atoiiic 
river,  the  living  ^»irit  «»f  the  valleys  to  which  it  give*  it- 
name,  are  the  only  object*  that  could  be  included  within 
the  narrow  limits  of  this  sketch. 

••Would  that  the  j»en  could  t»ujii>ly  the  U-anties  excluded 
by  the  narrow  space  allotted  to  the  j»encil  !  and  present  to 
the  mind's  eye  the  deep-set  valley  in  the  very  heart  of  which 
the  old  man-ion  stands,*  <>n  *  St.x-kbridge  plain.'  Tims  the 


•  "TTtM  is  no  fi^ur*  u(  »j*-«rtL.     The  lot  meal  «»f  llw  b.>tue,  koo»o  to  the 
CuniHr  a*  the  'KlizaUth  lot,'  (a  MUM  JrrivrJ  frutii  lL^  uM  In  lian  wmuao 
n  it  w*j>,  ao-1  wb<**e  witpram  »tu»Ml  oa   it.)  w«j 


• 


. 


- 

• 

: 


• 


- 


^W'w" 

.— . 


X 


MISS    8EDGWICK. 

perfectly  level  strip  of  land  hemmed  iu  between  the  upland 
and  the  meadows  was  designated  by  the  iirst  Yengees  (Kng- 
.libh)  who  cuiiio  over  the  mountains  from  Connecticut  river, 
and,  preferring  lioine  memorials  to  designations  that  to  Hum 
seemed  barbarous  and  unmeaning,  baptized  the  valleys  «»f 
the  llousatonic  with  old-world  names. 

u  How  far  the  judgment  -may  be  biassed  and  the  senses 
bewitched  by  early  love,  by  long  association,  und  by  the  illu- 
biousof  fond  memories,  I  cannot  pretend  to  say;  but  toonewh<» 
has  been  young  and  grown  old  in  familiarity  with  it,  4  Stock- 
bridge  plain'  realizes  the  beau-ideal  of  a  village — just  such 
a  village  as  a  poet  dreams  of  when  he  gives  a  local  habita 
tion  to  rural  beauty  and  4  country  contentments.'  It  is  en 
closed,  like  the  happy  valley  of  Ka&selas,  by  a  circuit  of 
hills,  wooded  to  their,  tops,  which  we,  somewhat  ambitiously, 
call  mountains,  since  the  very  highest  of  them  does  not  HM» 
more  than  eight  hundred  feet  above  the  meadows.  Midway 

nilled  Manwootania,  middle  of  the  town  —  the  town  was  six  mile*  .-juai. . 
Those  who  ure  curious  in  imeh  matters  may  like  to  .-.  i;  tho  Indian  names  ot 
localities  r«-lati'il  to  this  oKl  homestead.  /ftHistttunic  is  a  corraption  <  f  .[<•••> 
tonook('Qver  the  inmintain')  —  the  nuine  in  tho  Iiulian  «lay  wu4  bonu:  l»y  thr 
valley  as  well  as  the  rivor.  J\,,,,.(.^,,,t  id  .-till  the  name  of  a  little  Ki",,k  that  - 
lazily  win.ls  tlirou^h  the  mcatlows  that  it  seems  ulmo.st  to  .sleep  in  ita  rich  \>ct\ 
tli.-K-.  Kachpeehuck  ('-nation'd  tugai'-jdaco ')  is  the  bountiful  little  meadow  \- 
twt'on  Stock bfiilgd  nn«l  I^-e,  a  gem  —  an  emerald  gem,  Jeep  Bt-t  in  the  hill".' 
h'-i<  f<]>'( ttit'fttiliiio  is  the  preeipitoua  grevn  mountain- wall  honth  of  it.  Tahnc  .• 
niu-k  ('the  heart')  —  a  long  hill  running  east  uiul  west,  which  hidtsthe  valley 
of  Stoekl>ri«lge  from  I^-no.v.  The  name  was  given  us  an  affectionate  riu-inoriat 
of  some  kindness  Vx-tween  the  Indians  and  white  people.  Is  there  treuehery 
implied  in  it  a.  present  designation,  ItattleMiake  Mountain}  Ma*»wantethn»rfi 
('a  nest')  Monument  Mountain.  M,t),t«-,m> »•,  the  name  of  the  tribe  fnna 
whii-h  the  Sttiekbridire  Indians  euine,  eorrnpted  to  Mohican." 


170  HOMES    OK    AM  Ell  I  CAN.  AUT1IO11S. 

.of  tlu'  plain  in  a  long  wide  btrect,  gently  rising  at  tho  eastern 
extremity,  and  by  a  slight  curve  vanishing  within  tho  shadow 
»jf  trees  in  their  *  summer  pride,'  impenetrable  to  the  eye. 
The  view  at  tho  western  end,  where  stands  the  church,  and 
the  bury  ing-ground  thick-set  with  monumental  btones,  is 
dosed  by  the  bite  of  the  old  missionary-house  and  the 
mountain  .beyond  it.  Tho  wide  htivet  is  embowered,  and 
.  its  monotony  broken  by  line  sugar-maples  and  elms  that 
seem  lovingly  to  clasp  it  in  their  tar-stretching  arms. 

*' On  each  bide  the  street,  with  well  trimmed  adjoining 
gardens  and  deeply-shaded  court-yards  in  Iront,  are  neat 
dwellings,  indicative  of  cultivated  and  rolinod  proprietors, 
an  aspect  rather  idiosyncratic  in  our  land.  There  is  not  a 
single  4  Italian  villa,'  no, 'Grecian  front,'  not  one  wooden 
Corinthian  column  without  a  capital,  nor  a  capital  without 
a  column  !  no  architectural  absurdity  indicating  ignorant 
imitation  or  fatuous  aspiration.  Hut  there  is  a  filial  constT- 
vatism,  a  reverence  for  the  past,  demonstrated  in  a  careful 
repair  and  scrupulous  preservation  of  ancestral  homes.  This 
diffuses  a  sort  of  sentiment  over  the  village  plain,  which  ho 
who  runs  may  read. 

^Several  of  the  best  houses  are  tenanted  by  women.  The 
prosperity  and  beauty  about  them  is  a  formidable  argument 
in  favor  of  the  capacity  of  tho  Bex  to  be  tho  managers  of 
their  own  property!  These  are  the  kind  of  arguments  which 
can  be  most  potently  and  most  gracefully  used  by  those  who 
contend  for  the  *  rights  of  women,'  and  against  which,  even 
those  that  are  confuted  by  them  may  be  willing  not  to  *  argue 


still.' 


Between  the  eastern  extremity  of  tho  plain  and  tho 


MISS    8EDGWICK.  171 


river  is  a  circular  hill,  rising,  it  may  bo,  150  feet  above  the 
valley,  covered  with  trees  and  a  thick  undergrowth  of  cal- 
mias.  From  them  it  takes  its  name,  *  Laurel-hill.' 


'  'Hie  luiu-fl,  imvil  of  mighty  conqueror* 

Alld   |...,-t.,  Sage.' 

Not  in  our  humble  lite!  where  it  nmrely  serves  to  deck  its 

mother  earth.  \ 

**  Well-trodden  paths  wind  around  Laurel-hill  from  iti  ba^c 
tu  its  summit.  The  old  man  may  go  to  tho-very  top  without 
toil  or  weariness,  stopping  at  the  turns  and  rustic  seats,  to 
look  through  the  frame-  work  of  trees  at  such  lovely.  pic 
tures  as  may  be  made  by  a  village,  meadows,  harvest-field.-^  . 
circling  hills,  and  the  Hoiisatouic,  which  winds  half  around 
it.  On  one  bide  Laurel-hill  is  roeky  and  precipitous.  Its 
crown  is  called  'sacrifice-rock,1  a  name  given  to  it  by  an  in- 
digcnous  romance  writer,  who  naturally  enough  transferred  • 
to  her  pages  the  impressions  her  childhood  received  then1. 
Laurel-hill  was  at  omttime  in  danger  of  being  denuded  by 
home  of  Pluto's  demons  to  fill  a  coal-pit.  It  was  rescued  by 
the  Sedgwiek  family,  and  given  to  the  village  in  perpetuity. 

u  May.it  remain  for  ages  the  resort  of  the  thoughtful,  the  • 
refreshment  of  the  aged,  and  the  favorite  play-ground  of 
happy  children,  who  .shall  make  it  echo,  as  it  now  does,  to  the 
healthy  music  of  their  glad  voices  ! 

"  Hey  ond  the  plain,  above,  below  and  around,  stretch 
meadows,  uplands  ami  lowlands,  in  every  variety  of  beauti 
ful  form  and  gradation  of  cultivation.  Small  lakes,  or,  in 
our  homely  dialect,  'ponds,'  open  their  blue  eyes  among  the 
hills  in  various  parts  of  the  town.  The  largest  is  some  three 


172  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

iiiiled  from  the  village.  The  name  by  which  it  was  known 
to  its  original  and  rightful  proprietors  was  Quecheeochook 
(Anglice  '  the  howl').  Quite  latterly,  it  has  heen  called  by 
a  little  girl,  who  seems  merely  to  have  given  voice  to  a  self- 
impressed  name,  *  the  mountain  mirror.'  And  though  the 
name  is  somewhat  fantastical,  it  seems  from  its  descriptive* 
ness  to  have  been  acceptable.  The  border  of  this  lake  has 
already^  been  selected  by  a  gentleman  of  taste  for  his  country 
hoine.  Others  will  soon  follow  this  pioneer,  for  many  who 
are  now  doomed  to 

'Scrawl  btnuige  words  with  a  luulwruus  pen,' 

or  to  fret  and  stifle  in  those  haunts  where  '  merchants  most 
do  congregate,1  are  looking  to  the  vallies  of  Berkshire  as 
their  land  of  promise. 

u  Hawthorne',  the  wizard  writer  of  our  land,  perched  for  a 
year  just  on  the  rim  of  *  the  bowl/  and  in  his  *  wonder  book ' 
lias  cast  his  spells  around  it.  To  us  we  confess  it  derives  its 
dearest  association  from  being  the  fishing-ground  of  a  great 
dramatic  genius — our  most  deal*  friend — her  favorite  resort, 
where  e«he  saw  visions,  and  dreamed  of  laying  the  foundations 
of  a  future  home. 

"In  turning  back  the  volume  of  life  for  half  a  century,  how 
different  from  the  present  do  we  find  the  then  modes  of  do 
mestic  life.  Civilization  has  advanced — the  social  arts  have 
developed.  lias  virtue  made  an  equal  progress  I  Is  house 
hold  life  enriched  ? 

u  Rail-roads  are  of  recent  date.  But  in  my  childhood  not 
wen  a  4  turnpike'' connected  our  village  with  the  great  marts 
{little  marts  then!)  of  New  York  and  Boston,  equidistant 


MISS     SEDGWICK.  173 

from  us.  A  ricketty  mail-coach  came  once  a  week  from 
New  York.  But  with  what  eager  expectation  wo  watched 
it  as  it  slowly  crawled  along  the  lino  of  road  visible  from  the 
piazza  of  the  south  entrance  !*  AVith  what  blissful  emotions 
we  hailed  the  mail  that  was  sure  to  bring  to  each  child  a 
letter  from  the  beloved  parent  in  Congress  at  Philadelphia! 
Now,  twice  a  day,  the  rail-cars  come  shrieking  through  the 
meadows  of  Awastouook,  and  twice  a  week  they  bring  us 
Kuropean  news — and  scarcely  a  sensation  is  produced! 

"Then  how  often  the  gate  of  the  avenue  to  the  old  house 
was-  thrown  wide  open  to  receive  political  friends,  or  aristo 
cratic  guests,  who  had  come  in  their  own  carriages  a  weary 
journey  from  their  city  homes — guests,  servants,  and  horses, 
were  all  received  with  unostentatious  but  abounding  hospi 
tality.  The  doors  opened  as  readily  to  troops  of  cousins,  and 
humble  friends,  for  those  who  dwelt  there  were  much  '  given 
to  hospitality/  and  though  still  retaining  the  prestiges  of 
colonial  life,  they  showed  certain  humane  tendencies  to  slide 
down  to  the  platform  of  their  democratic  descendants!  Now 
your  friend  is  a  mere  passenger  in  a  rail-car,  perchance 
driven  past  you  as  if  the  Fates  were  at  his  heels. 

u  Those  were  the  days  of  the  wide  open  lire-place,  which, 
with  its  brilliant,  crackling,  bountiful  lire,  has  made  the  good 
Saxon  terms  of  4  fireside '  and  'hearth-stone,'  key-notes  to 
household  loves,  and  domestic  charities. 

".A  winter's  evening  lire  in  the  kitchen  of  the  old  house, 
stocked  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  Founder  with  the  African 

*  "The  }»itu/u,  or  ttoojt,  (the  word  was  borrowed  from  our  Dutch  neighbor* 
on  the  New  York  border)  had  given  |>lnce  to  the  bay-window*  ttccu  in  the  fig* 
uette." 


174  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

race,  (frco  people  all — gratias  Deo !)  would  supply  a  month's 
fuel  for  one  of  the  cruel,  dark,  cheerless  stoves  of  the  present 
day.  I  well  remember  how,  as  the  night  approached,  a  chain 
was  fastened  round  a  hickory  log,  and  attached  to  a  horsv 
who  drew  it  to  the  door-step.  Then  it  was  rolled  to  the  hum* 

»  ?""> 

H re-pi aco  hy  the  men,  shaking  the  house  to  its  foundations  I 
Then  was  brought  the  ''fore-stick'  larger  than  any  'Yule-log' 
since  the  Norman  conquest ;  then  arm-full  after  arm-full  was 
piled  on  till  the  structure  would  have  served  for  the  holocaust 
of  an  army.  lint  its  uses  were  of  a  gentler  kind.  Their  easy 
day's  work  done,  the  genial  children  of  a  tropical  sun  sat  joc 
und  around,  roasting  and  mellowing!  These  were  their 
,  *good  old  times,'  before  the  Celts  came  in,  the  first  days  of 
their  Independence  in  Massachusetts,  and  while  they  yet  re 
tained  the  habits  of  trained  servants,  and  much  of  the  affec 
tionate  loyalty  of  feudal  service.  The  (so-called)  slaves  of 
New  England  were  few,  and  were  never  degraded  below  tlu*- 
condition  of  serfs.  They  made  a  part  of  the  domestic  establish 
ment.  They  were  incorporated  with  the  family,  sometimes 
assuming  the  patronymic,  and  always  claiming  a  participa 
tion  in  its  honors,  as  a  portion  of  their  personal  property. 
in  the  Farmer's  household  they  sat,  like  (Jurth  and  Wain- 
ba,  *  below  the  salt '  at  their  Master's  table, 

44 The  genius  loci  of  the  old  Homestead  kitchen  was  a  no 
ble  creature,  whose  first  free  service  was  devoted  to  the  fami 
ly,  and  who  watched  over  it  with  vigorous  intelligence  and 
unswerving  fidelity  till  she  died,  loved  and  honored,  in  a  good 
old  age.* 

*  "  While  t hi.t  woman  wiw  yet  youn^r,  ami  u  blnve,  lior  natural  acaau  of  riijht  uiul 
justice  was  confirmed  by  hearing  the  'Declaration  of  Indepondoaco '  rt-ml..    Sho 


M  i  a  a   s  E  D  G  w  I  o  K  .  175 

"  There  were  other  of  tho  faithful  servants  of  that  day 
whose  'memories  are  embalmed  at  tho  old- Homestead.  One, 
named  Agrippa,  came  to  my  father  from  Kosciusko,  whom 
he  had  served  during  all  his  campaigns  in  this  country,  lie 
did  not  entertain  our  childhood  with  tho  4  battles,  hieges,  for 
tunes/  of  his  hero,  but  with  his  practical  jokes  in  camp,  and 
his  boyish  love  of  fun.  Agrippa  lived  to  be  a  village  Migo, 
with  something  of  the  humorous  pithiness  of  Saneho  l*anza, 
and  mneh,  as  we  thought,  'of  the  wisdom  of  Solomon.' 

"  Violin  players  maintain  that,  the  quality  of  their  itintru- 
meiit  is  improved  by  age;  that  it  is  mystcrioufly  enriched 
by  the  music  it  bus  produced  in  the  hands  of  superior  artists. 
If  this  be  HO,  what  secret  records  may  have  sunken, into  the 
walls  of  an  old  family  .home,  consecrated  by  the  domestic 
life  of  three  happy  generations ! 

"  'The  only  l.ii»  that  I  ma  MM  \i\r-l  tin  Fall.' 

(Vrtaiu  it  is  these  walls  of  our  old  home  give  out  to  tho 
attentive  ear  of  memory  the  harmonies  of  family  love  —  tho 
soil  glad  whi>pcr  of  the  birth-day  —  the  merry  music  of  the 
marriage-bell  —  the  shout  of  joyous  meetings  —  the  sighs  of 
partings  —  the  noisy,  idle,  and  yet  most  wise  joys  of  child-- 

fumo  to  my  father  respecting  the  clause  which  u.-wrt.-*  that  'nil  men  are  b>rn  fre« 
uii'l  fijiml ; '  fh«!  buid  '  1  am  not  a  dumb  critter,  Sir,  au.i  I  have  a  right  to  my  free 
dom.'  My  fat  In  r  uixlcrtouk  thu  j.n^.-i-utimi  of  her  It-gal  claim,  mid  tho  r«  -nil 
\vas  tho  munumiK-iou  of  all  tho  .-la\ »••>  in  .Mu-.-arlni.-.'its. 

"  IVmii  the  hour  of  her  omnncipntion  the  M-ru-d  in  my  father'^  hou.^,  and 
ui.uijlit  into  the  lif.nt.-t  of  hid  children  a  love  for  the  ruce  that  hud  given  to 
them  a  life-long  friend,  liiuurpaased  in  |*ractical  intelligence,  and  rarely  equalled 
in  the  Divine  quulitieHof  ju?tiee,  truth  and  fidelity." 


176  HUMES    OP     AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

hood — the  ringing  gayeties  of  youth  —  the  free,  fearless  dit 
ciiHsions  of  manhood' — the  loving  admonition  of  age  —  the 
funeral  wail  and  lament !    There  we  hold  (.'011111111111011  with 
'spirits  unseen,' 

"  'Both  when  we  wake  uit«l  when  we  bleep.1 " 


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VERY  reader  of  the  "  Pioneera*'  is  familiar  with  Coop 


.J  crstuwu  and  the  rich  loivnt  Hcenery  of  Ot.-^.i  Luke. 
One  thing  in  Banting,  however,  to  eninplote  the  i.ieturu  «»f 
iiHy  yearri  ngo,  u  gray-eyed,  dark-haired,  ruddy  hoy,  niinhlo 
art  a  deer  and  gay  as  a  bird.  You  would  have  N*M  him  on 
the  lake,  plying  hit)  oar  lustily,  or  trimming  Iiir»  r-ail  <<>  tlio 
mountain  breexe;  and  whenever  he  i'ound  a  wave  high 
enough  to  lilt  hi*  little  boat,  hi*  veins  would  thrill  -with  a 
Strange  delight,  and  ho  would  ank  himself  whether  this 


180  HOMES    OP    AME'RICAN    AUTHORS. 

like  those  ocean  waves  of  which  lie  had  heard  such  wonders. 
Then  perhaps  he  would  pause  to  ga/e  on  (ho  green  canopy 
of  the  woods,  with  sensations  that  made  his  heart  beat  fast 
.  and  loud,  or  even  called  a  tear  to  his  eye,  though  why  he 
could  not   tell,  —  those  first  revelations  of  the  keener  and 
purer  joys  which  nature  reserves  for  those  who  love  and 
study  her  aright.     When  the  bree/e  died  away  and  the  HUH 
came  out  in  its  strength,  he  would  turn  his  bow  towards 
the  shore.     The  forest  leaves  looked  fresh  and  cool,  ami  the 
light  fell  so  softly  and  soothingly  under  the  broad  branches 
of  (hose  old  trees.     The  deer  would  start  and  bound  away 
as  they  heard  his  nimble  tread,  but  the  birds  would  let  him 
pass  unheeded,  and  sing  to  one  another  and  hop  in  mi  bough 
to  bough,  as  if  they  knew  that  they  were  made  for  sunlight 
mid  song.     And  when  they  stopped  for  a  moment,  such  a 
silence  would  fall  on  those  deep  woods,  that  even  the  drop 
ping  of  a  leaf  would  have  something  mysterious  tuul  thrill 
ing  about  it.    There  would  be  something,  too,  of  strangeness 
and  mystery  in  the  sky  as  he  caught  glimpses  of  its  deep 
•  blue  through  the  tremulous  trcetops,  and  a  deeper  mystery 
still  in  those  long  vistas  under  the  pines  where  the  siglrt 
would  wander  and  wander  on  till  it  lost  itself,  at  la.st,  in 
mingling  leaves  and  shade.     And  when  in  the  evening  cir 
cle  he  told  the  story  of  his  roaming,  they  would  w.arn  him 
against  straying  too  far,  tell  stories  of  lost  children,  of  In 
dians  that  Htill   lurked   in  the  forests,  and   bears  and  eitta 
mounts  and  all  the  wild  scenes  of  pioneer  life.     Little  did 
they  dream  what  needs  they  were  dropping  into  that  young 
mind,  and  the  delight  which  thousands  would  one  day  receive 
from  the  impressions  of  this  boyhood  ani'ong  the  woods. 


COOPEB.  181 

Cooper  was  but  an  infant  when  be  was  first  carried  tc 
Cooperstown,  lie  was  born  at  Burlington,  Xew  Jersey,  on 
the  15tb  "of  September,  1780,  and  the  little  village,  which 
was  to  be  the  home  of  his  boyhood  and  his  final  resting' 
place,  had  been  built  by  his  father  only  three  years  before. 
J  ml  go  Templeton  has  always  been  supposed  to  be  an  outline 
sketch  of  that  gentleman,  and  the  "Pioneers"  tells  us  what 
kind  of  a  life  was  led  in  this  homo  which  he  had  made  lor 
himself  in  the  wilderness.  Perhaps  the  love  of  the  water 
which  KM!  Cooper  to  the  navy  was  first  imbibed  on  the 
OUego,  and  the  associations  with  which  he  has  invested 
old  ocean  for  so  many  minds,  would  thus  be  owing  to  a 
quiet  little  lake  antong  the  hills.  Never  was  the  "child" 
inure  truly  "father  of  the  man"  than  in  Cooper. 

At  thirteen  he  entered  Yale,  too  young,  if  that  favorite 
institution  had  been  what  it  is  now,  but  yet  old  enough  to 
prove  himself  an  apt  and  ready  scholar.  The  poet  Ilillhouse 
was  in  the  same  class,  and  younger  than  he.  Dr.  Dwight 
was  then  President,  with  a  well-won  reputation  as  a  teacher, 
and  which  has  already  outlived  his  claims  as  a  poet.  It 
would  be  interesting- to  know  how  the  stripling  who  was  to 
become  one  of  the,  real  founders  of  American  literatim, 
looked  and  felt  in  the  presence  of  one  of  its  earliest, vota 
ries.  The  young  poet  was  something  of  a  rogue,  the  old 
"iic  not  a  little  proud  of  his  position;  and  it  is  difficult  to 
withstand  the  temptation  of  indulging  the  fancy  in  --miv 
amusing  scenes  between  them.  The  culprit  looking  btraigltt- 
forward  with  a  funny  mixture  of  drollery  and  indefinite 
dread  of  consequences  in  his  clear,  gray  eye,  and  the  old 
doctor  bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  with  a  thunder-cloud  on 


182  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

his  brow,  and  measuring  out  his  oppressive  sentences  with 
Johnsonian  dignity.  The  only  recorded  expression,  as  fur  as 
we  know,  of  Cooper's  opinion  of  the  poetical  merits  of  his 
old  muster,  is  his  answer  to  (Jodwin's  reference  to  the  4' Con 
quest  of  Canaan"  and  "Vision  of  Columbus"  as  the  only 
American  poems  that  he  had  ever  heard  of,  —  "Oh,  we  can 
do  better  than  that  now." 

College  then  as  now,  and  perhaps  even  more  than  now, 
was  the  path  to  one  of  the  learned  professions  'r  and  Cooper, 
whose  tastes  led  him  to  seek  for  a  more  adventurous  career, 
left  it  in  his  fourth  year  for  the  navy.  There  were  no  schools 
in  our  navy  then,  ami  it  was  common  for  the  joung  candi 
date  for  nautical  honors  to.  make  a  voyage  before  the  mast 
in  a  merchantman,  by  way  of  initiation  ;  a  custom  which 
Cooper,  in  looking  back  upon  his  own  course  from  an  inter 
val  of  forty  years,  is  far  from  approving.  In  his  case,  how 
ever,  few  will  regret  it.  It  was  his  iirst  intercourse  with 
sailors,  his  iirst  initiation  into  the  hardships  and  enjoyments, 
the  pains  and  the  pleasures  of  sea-life,  which  he  surely  could 
never  have  painted  so  truthfully  but  for  that  year  and  a  half 
in  the  forecastle. 

An  old  shipmate  has  recorded  his  first  appearance,  when 
he  came  down  to  the  Sterling  under  the  care  of  a  merchant, 
to  look  about  him  and  sign  the  articles.  The  next  day  ho 
made  his  appearance  in  full  Bailor  rig:  the- ship  was  taken 
into  the  stream;  and  his  new  companions  came  tumbling  on 
board,  a  medley  of  nations,  agreeing  only  in  what  was  then 
the  almost  universal  characteristic  of  a  sailor  on  shore,  the 
being  or  having  been  drunk.  Night,  however,  put  them  in 
Sufficient  working  trim,  and  when  all  hands  were  ca'led  to 


COOPER.  183 

get  the  ship  under  way,  Cooper  was  sent  aloft  with  another 
l>oy  to  loose  the  ibrctopsail.  lie  set  himself  to  his  task  with 
characteristic  earnestness,  and  was  tugging  stoutly  at  "  the 
rubins,"  when  the  second  mate  came  up  just  in  time  to  pre 
vent  him  from  dropping  his  half  of  the  Bail  into  the  top. 
Fortunately  the  mate  was  too  good-natured  to  he  hard  up«»n 
a  raw  hand,  and  the  men  too  busy  with  their  own  work  to 
see  what  was  going  on  aloft.  But. lie  soon  found  an  '"old 
salt "  who  taught  him  to  knot  and  splice,  very  much  as 
u  Long  Tom  "  taught  Bamstable,  and  when  they  got  on 
shore  Cooper  repaid  the  debt  by  historical  anecdotes  of  the 
places  they  visited  together. 

Captain  Johnston  was  a  kind  man,  part  owner  as  well  as 
commander,  and  doubly  interested  in  making  a  good  voyage. 
The  passage,  however,  was  long  and  stormy,  nearly  forty  days 
from  land  to  land,  and  Cooper's  first  view  of  England  was 
through  its  native  veil  of  tog.  The  whole  country  was  in 
.arms,  for  it  was  in  the  time  of  the  threatened  invasion  by 
.Napoleon.  As  they  passed  the  straits  of  Dover  at  daybreak, 
they  counted  forty  odd  sail  of  vessels  of  war,  returning  from 
their  night-watch  in  those  narrow  seas ;  and  every  one  who 
remembers  his  own  first  impressions  of  striking  scenes,  will 
readily  conceive  how  deeply  the  mind  of  a  young  poet  mint 
have-  been  impressed  by  so  striking  a  scene  as  this.  It  was 
a  practical  illustration  of  the  watchfulness  ami  naval  power 
of  the  English  which  he  never  forgot. 

It  was  in  a  round-jacket  ami  tarpaulin  that  the  future 
gue<t  of  Rogers  and  Holland  house  first  set  his  foot  on  Eng 
lish  ground,  his  imagination  glowing  with  the  recollection  of 
all  that  he  had  heard  and  read  of  her  glory  and  her  power, 


HOMES  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

and  his  heart  thrilled  with  the  thought  that  this  was  the  laud 
of  his  fathers.  lie  was  soon  at  home  in  London,  ran  through 
the  usual  round  of  sights,  peered  from  under  his  tarpaulin  at 
the  wonders  of  the  Tower  and  the  beauties  of  the  "West 
Kiul,"  and  at  evening  amused  the  forecastle  with  tales  and 
descriptions  from  the  scenes  of  his  day's  ramble. 

The  voyage  was  long  and  successful.  It  gave  him  a  rough 
experience  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  carried  him  up  the  straits, 
afforded  a  running  view  of  the  coasts  of  Spain  and  Africa, 
made  him  familiar  with  the  headlands  and  coasts  of  the 
channel  and  the  hazardous  navigation  of  those  crowded 
waters,  stored  his  memory  with  scenes  and  incidents  and 
outlines  of  character,  and  while  it  iitted  him  for  the  imme 
diate  duties  of  his  profession,  prepared  him  also  for  those 
vivid  pictures  of  sea-life  which  have  made  ships  as  familiar 
t<>  hundreds  who  never  looked  upon  the  ocean  as  to  those 
who  were  born  upon  its  shores. 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay  they  were  brought  to  by  a. pirate, 
and  only  escaped  by  the  timely  appearance  of  an  English 
cruiser.  They  ran  into  the  straits  in  thick  westerly  weather. 
"Lord  Collingwood's  fleet  was  oif  (-ape  Trafalgar,  and  the 
captain,  well  aware  of  the  danger  of  being  run  down  in  the 
night,  had  como  on  deck,  in  the  middle  watch,  to  see  that 
there  was  a  sharp  look-out  on  the  forecastle.  lie  had  scarce 
ly  given  his  orders,  when 'the  alarm  of  sail  ho!  was  heard, 
and  a  two-decker  was  tjescried  through  the  dark  and  mist 
bearing  directly  down  upon  them.  The  captain  ordered  tho 
helm  hard  up,  and  called  to  Cooper  to  bring  a  light.  AVith 
one  leap  he  was  in  the  cabin,  seized  the  light,  and  in  half 
a  minute  was  swinging  it  from  the  inizzcn  rigging.  His 


COOPER.  185 

promptness  saved  the  ship.  The  two  vessels  were  so  near 
that  the  voice  of  the  officer  of  the  deck  was  distinctly  heard 
calling  to  his  own  quartermaster  to  ''port  his  helm,"  and  as 
the  enormous  mass  swept  by  them,  it  seemed  as  if  she  was 
about  to  crush  their  railing  with  the  muzzle  of  her  guns. 
While  lying  oil'  the  old  Moorish  town  of  Almaria,  Cooper 
was  sent  on  shore  in  the  jolly-boat  to  boil  pitch.  As  tliev 
were  coming  oft1  they  saw  that  things  looked  squally,  and 
that  they  would  find  it  no  easy  work  to  get  through  the 
Kiirf.  But  their  orders  Were  peremptory,  and  delay  would 
only  have  made  matters  worse.  So  off  they  started,  and  tor 
a  minute  or  two  got  on  pretty  well,  when  all  of  a  sudden  a 
breaker  u took  the  bow  of  the  boat,  and  lifting  her  almost 
on  end,  turned  her  keel  uppermost."  All  hands  got  safe  on 
shore,  though  none  could  tell  how,  and  launching  their 
boat  again,  made  a  second  attempt  with  a  similar  result. 
It  was  not  till  a  third  trial  that  they  were  able  to  force  their 
way  through  the  surf. 

There  was  another  kind  of  experience,  too,  which  Cooper 
added  to  his  stock  during  this  memorable  voyage.  The  Ster 
ling  li,ad  hardly  dropped  her  anchor  in  English  waters  before 
she  was  hoarded  by  a  man-of-war's  boat,  and  one  .of  her  hot 
men  taken  from  her  to  be  forced  into  the  British  navy,  an 
other  of  them  only  escaping  by  having  a  ecrliticate  which 
the  otficcr  could  not  refuse  to  acknowledge,  though  he  had 
refused  to  acknowledge  his  "protection."  At  London  an 
other  was  lost,  and  the  captain  himself  was  seized  by  a 
press-gang.  On  their  return  passage,  just  as  they  wciv 
running  out,  they  were  boarded  by  a  gun-boat  officer,  \vln» 
attempted  to  press  a  Swede.  Cooper  could  not  stand  this 


186  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

insult  to  his  flag,  and  was  in  high  words  with  the  English* 
mun,  when  tho  captain  compelled  him  to  restrain  himself 
and  be  silent.  Such  were  some  of  his  first  lessons  in  this 
r«>ugh  but  manly  school. 

He  now  entered  the  navy,  and  continued  the  study  of  his 
profession  in  its  higher  walks.  How  succcffiful  these  studies 
were  he  has  already  proved  by  his  writings;  mid  years  ago 
we  heard  him  described  by  a  brother  officer,  who  knew  him 
well,  as  active,  prompt,  and  efficient,  a  pleasant  shipmate, 
always  ready  to  do  his  duty,  and  rigorous,  too,  in  exacting 
it  from  others.  Many  of  his  old  messmates  aro  btill  alive. 
Why  will  not  some  of  them  give  us  their  recollections  of  this 
portion  of  his  life  I  As  it  is,  we  can  only  judge  it  by  its 
results;  and  the  "  Pilot,"  with  its  followers  the  ki]STa\al 
History,"  and  u  Naval  Commanders,"  are  the  noblest  tribute 
ever  paid  to  a  noble  profession. 

And  here,  if  wo  were  writing  a  full  life,  the  iirst  and 
most  important  chapter  would  end.  The  lessons  of  the  for 
est  are  blended  with  the  lessons  of  the  sea ;  the  rough  tales 
of  the  forecastle  have  mingled  with  the  wild  traditions  of 
tho  frontiers ;  and  the  day-dreams  of  the  woods  and  gentle 
waters  of  Otsego  have  been  expanded  into  the  broader  vis 
ions  of  the  ocean,  and  chastened  by  the  stern  realities  of  real 
life.  The  elements  of  his  future  career  were  already  com 
bined,  and  awaited  only  tho  completion  of  that  sure,  though 
Mlent  process,  by  which  nature  prepares  tho  mysterious  de 
velopment  of  genius. 

Few  men  have  been  more  favorably  situated  during  this 
decisive  period  of  life.  He  had  resigned  his  commission  in 
,  and  married  Miss  Deluneey,  whose  gentle  character 


COOPER.  187 

ami  domestic  tastes  were  admirably  fitted  to  call  out  the 
deep  affect  ions  of  his  own  nature,  and  favor  that  grateful 
intermingling  of  action  and  repose  which  are  BO  essential  to 
vigor  and  freshness  of  mind.  He  had  established  himself 
in  a  quiet  little  house,  which  is  still  standing,  at  Mamero- 
neek,  in  Westchester  county,  not  go  near  to  the  city  as  ii. 
these  days  .of  railroads  and  steamers,  but  near  enough  to 
make  nil  excursion  easy,  and  enable  him  to  see  his  friends 
whenever  ho  chose,  lie  loved  his  books,  he  loved  the  quiet 
life  of  the  country,  he  loved  the  calm  sunshine  of  his  home, 
and  the  days  glided  smoothly  away,  scarcely  revealing  to 
.  him  or  to  those  around  him,  the  powers  which'  were  rapidly 
maturing  in  this  voluntary  obscurity.  It  was  this  seeming 
jnonotony  that  furnished  the  occasion  which  first  revealed 
his  real  calling.  He  was  reading  a  new-novel  to  his  wife: 
•k  IMiaw,"  said  he,  "I  can  write  a  better  one  myself:" 
and  to  prove  that  he  was  in  earnest,  he  set  himself  directly 
to  the  task,  and  wrote  the  lirst  chapter  of  "Precaution." 
"Go  on,"  was  Mrs.  Cooper's  advice,  when  she  had  li.-.tened 
to  it  as  a  young  wife  may  be  supposed  to  listen  to  the  first, 
pages  from  her  husband's  pen.  The  work  was  completed: 
a  friend  in  whose  literary  judgment  he  placed  great  confi 
dence,  the*  late  Charles  "Wilkes,  confirmed  the  decision  of  his 
wife,  and  *4  Precaution"  was  printed. 

It  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been  a  successful  book. 
The  scene  was  laid  in  Kngland.  He  was  drawing  upon  hie 
recollections  of  books,  rather  than  his  own  observations  of 
life>  and  the  society  which  he  had  undertaken  to  paint  was 
altogether  nnsuited  to  that  frohness  of  thought  and  .^cenery 
in  which  his  strength  peculiarly  lay.  Yet  the  work  for  him 


188  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

was  a  very  important  one.  Ho  hail  overcome  the  first  diiH- 
culties  of  authorship  ;  hud  framed  a  plot  and  developed  it ; 
invented  characters,  and  wade  them  act  and  speak ;  and 
learnt  how  to  make  his  pen  obey  his  will  through  two  con 
secutive  volumes.  In  authorship,  as  in  many  other  things, 
it  is  the  iirst  step  that  is  the  hard  one. 

His  vocation  was  now  decided.  His  active  mind  hail 
found  its  natural  outlet.  The  mechanical  labor  of  author 
ship  was  overcome,  and  yielding  to  the  impulse  of  his  ge 
nius,  he  took  his  station  boldly  on  his  native  soil,  amid  the 
scenes  of  American  history,  and  wrote  the  "Spy." 

The  time  will  come  when  we  shall  feel  far  more  deeply 
thau  we  now  do,  how  great  an  event  this  was  in  the  history 
of  American  literature.  Jt  is  easy  to  he  an  author  now. 
Literature  has  become  a  recognized  profession,  and  bring* 
its  rewards  as  well  as  its  trials.  We  have  it,  therefore,  in 
all  its  iV>rms,  and  abundantly.  We  have  its  butterlljes  and 
its  moths,  its  vampyres  and  its  jackals,  ajid  we  have,  too, 
earnest  minds,  and  men  who  think  hohHy  and  labor  manfully 
in  their  high  calling.  And  we  have  them,  because  at  the 
very  moment  when  we  needed  it  most,  there  were  a  few 
minds  among  us  which  had  the  energy  and  the  independence 
to  mark  out  for  themselves  a  course  of  their  own,  and  perse 
vere  in  it  resolutely.  But  the  task,  was  a  harder  one  than 
wo  can  fully  realize,  Cooper's  strong  American  feelings 
were  so  well  known  to  his  friends,  that  they  had  not  JICM- 
tated  to  tell  him  how  much  they  were  surprised  at  his  choice 
uf  a  subject  lor  his  Iirst  work.  He  accepted  the  censure, 
and  resolved  to  atone  for  his  error.  Hut  the  pnxpect  of  suc 
cess  Wits  so  small,  that  it  was  not  till  several  months  utter  the 


COOPER.        • 

first  volume  hud  been  printed  that  ho  could  summon  up  res 
olution  enough  to  begin' the  second.  Then,  too,  us  this  was 
»dowly  making  its  way  through  the  press,  the  scarcely  dried 
manuscript  pacing  directly  from  the  author's  desk  to  tho 
compositor,  the  publisher  became  alarmed  at  the  prospect  "1 
a  large  volume  J  and  to  calm  his  apprehensions,  the  last 
chapter  was  written,  paged  and  printed,  before  halt'  of  its 
immediate  predecessors  had  even  been  thought  of. 

The  HUCCCSS  of  the  *  Spy  'was  complete,  and  almost  im 
mediate.  It  was  not  merely  a  triumph,  but  a  revelation,  for 
it  showed  that  our  own  society  and  history,  young  as  they 
were,  could  furnish  characters  and  incidents  for  the  mo.>t 
inviting  form  of  romance.  There  was  a  truthfulness  about 
it  which  everybody  could  feel,  and  which,  in  some  of  the 
countries  where  it  has  been  translated,  have  given  it  the 
rank  of  a  real  history.  And  yet  there  was  a  skilful  group 
ing  of  characters,  a  happy  contrast  of  bituations  and  inter- 
r-ts,  un  intermingling  of  grave  and  gay,  of  individual  ec 
centricities  and  natural  feeling,  a  life  in  the  narrative,  and  a 
graphic  power  in  the  descriptions,  which  in  spite  of  some 
commonplace,  and  some  defects  in  the  artistic  arrangement 
of  the  plot,  raised  it,  at  once,  to  the  -lirnt  class  among  works 
of  the  imagination.  Jmt  its  peculiar  characteristic,  and  to 
which  it  owed,  above  all  others,  its  rank  as  a  work  of  inven 
tion,  w;is  the  character  of  Harvey  Kirch. 

Wordsworth  had  already  rdiown  how  freely  the  cleiuenU 
of  poetry  are  scattered  through  the  walks  of  lowly  life.  The 
••  Wanderer"  was  a  beautiful  illustration  of  the  wisdom  that 
lies  hidden  in  the  brooks  and  trees,  ami  the  pure  sunshine 
of  a  mind  that  has  chastened  all  inordinate  devices,  and 


100  HOMES    OF    A1IKHICAN    AUT1IOK8. 

learnt  to  look  upon  nature  and  bo  happy.  But  temptation 
luul  never  presented  itself  to  him  in  its  most  dangerous  form. 
His  greatest  peril  luul  been  a  lonely  walk  over  roads  that 
were  never  wholly  deserted,  ami  his  greatest  belt-denial,  to 
throw  off  hid  pack  when  he  felt  that  he  had  earned  enough. 

A  {"> 

Cooper  was  the  first  to  take  the  humble  son  of  toil,  who.-o 
daily  earnings  were  to  be  won  at  the  daily  hazard  of  lite, 
and  by  planting  the  holy  principle  of  faith  and  Kicritiee  in 
Ins  bosom,  raise  him  to  the  dignity  of  a  patriot,  without  de 
priving  him  of  the  characteristics  of  a  pedler.  It  is  in  this 
that  he  bhowd  his  genhis.  Many  a  happy  conception  has 
been  destroyed  for  want  of  this  nice  discrimination,  or  rather 
this  intuitive  perception  of  the  homogeneous  elements  of 
character;  of  what  cannot  be  taken  from  it,  and  what  can 
not  be  engrafted  upon  it,  without  destroying  it.  Harvey  is 
a  pedler,  with  a  pedler's  habits  and  language,  and  in  all 
that  was  essential  to  the  preservation  of  his  identity,  a  ped- 
ler's  feelings.  His  pack  is  well  filled  with  goods  that  he 
has  chosen  skilfully  to  meet  the  wants  and  excite  the  de 
sires  of  his  customers.  AVhen  he  opens  it,  he  knows  how  to 
bring  them  out  with  effect,  and  get  the  most  he  can  for 
them.  You  can  see  his  eye  twinkle  with  the  kev-u  delight 
of  a  shrewd  bargain ;  and  'though  he  will  not  cheat  you, 
and  can  be  generous  upon  occasions,  you  feel  that  whatever 
may  have  driven  him  to  trade  in  the  beginning,  more  than 
half  his  soul  is  in  it  now.  There  is  but  one  touch  of  poetry 
in  him, .and  that  is  rather  the  effect  of  his  position  than  of 
any  inward  sense  of  the  poetical;  objective  rather  than 
subjective.  I  mean  the  exquisite  description  of  his  feeling> 
when  led  out  into  the  sunshine  to  die.  lint  for  this,  and  yoif 


COOPER,  1!H 

would  almost  fancy  that  ho  had  walked  liko  Peter  He'll 
through  the  loveliest  scenes  without  any  percept  ion 'of  their 
loveliness. 

Thus  shrewdness,  resolution,  and  plain  common  sense, 
are  the  apparent  traits  of  his  character,  and  those,  probabU, 
by  which  he  had  been  known  among  his  customers  and 
friends.  Strange  elements,  it  would  set-in,  for  the  hero  of  a 
romance,  but  essential,  for  all  that,  to  the  keeping  and  har 
mony  of  the  author's  conception.  Did  you  ever,  in  your 
journeying*,  meet  a  brook,  a  calm,  quiet,  silent  little  Mream, 
with  just  water  enough  to  keep  its  banks  green,  or  to  turn  a 
small  gri>t-mill,  and  make  itself  useful  ?  And  did  you  ever 
follow  that  brook  up  to  its  birth-place,  among  the  mountains, 
where  it  tirst  came  gushing  forth  from  some  Minless  cavern, 
and  lav  In-fore  you  like  a  mysterious  creation,  with  the  dark 
shadows  of  dills  and  crag*,  and  giant  old  trees  on  its 
bosom  {  It  is  the  same  brook  still,  the  Fame  pure  current, 
the  game-  cool  and  limpid  waters;  but  if  you  'had  never 
seen  them  except  as  they  flowed  through  the  meadow,'  you 
would  never  have  known  how  sweetly  they  could  mingle 
with  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  mountains. 

Set  the  pedler  and  Jlritish  general  face  to  face,  ami  let 
him  watch  the  eye  and  the  lips  of  the  man  who  controls  the 
fate  of  thousands,  as  he  would  the  changing  features  of  a 
customer  that  is  haggling  for  a  sixpence.  Place  him  alone 
in  the  midst  of  enemies  who  are  thirsting  for  his  blood,  and 
give  him  the  same  coolness  and  resolution  with  which  he 
had  face»l  robbers  who  asked  him  for  nothing  but  his  pack. 
Let  the  same  common  fienso  which  had  been  his  guide  in 
trade,  guide  him  still  amid  the  crooks  and  tangles  of  policy, 


HOMES    OF    A  Mi-;  HI  CAN    AUTHOIiS. 

(lie  dark  passions  of  civil  war ;  lot  human  life,  and  at 
times  even  the  fate  of  a  nation  depend  upon  his  truth,  anil 
(flitting  him  off  from  every  hope  of  honor,  leave  him  no 
stimulant  but  the  love  of  country,  and  no  reward  hut  the 
consciousness  of  duty  well  performed,  and  the  pedler, 
though  a  pedler  still,  becomes  a  hero. 

The  same  originality  of  invention  and  admirable  dis 
crimination  are  found  in  Jus  next  great  character,  Leather 
Stocking.  In  all  that  relates  to  his  calling,  Leather  Stock 
ing,  like  Harvey  Uireh,  is  a  simple  mid  natural  character. 
They  have  the  same  judgment  and  common  sense.  1'ut  the 
.shrewdness  which  was  so  well  placed  in  .the  tradesman, 
would  have  dwindled  into  littleness  and  cunning  in  the  man 
of  the  woods.  Simple-heartedness,  and  clear,  quick  percep 
tion,  would  be  his  natural  characteristics.  IJesolntion  would 
become  fortitude  and  daring;  and  those  days  ami  nights 
under  the  canopy  of  the  green  woods,  or  amid  the  falling 
leaves,  or  with  the  blasts  of  winter  whistling  around  him., 
the  sunlight  falling  through  the  opening  tree-tops  as  it  Jails 
on  the  vaulted  aisles  of  a  cathedral,  and  the  stars  looking 
meekly  out  from  their  blue  dwellings,  still,  and  bilcnt,  and 
yet  with  something  in  their  silence  which  thrilled  and 
swelled  the  heart  like  choral  symphonies,  in  the  vast  soli 
tudes  around  him  ;  these  appeals  of  nature  to  the  nobler 
and  purer  elements  of  our  being,  would  awaken  feelings  that 
were  unknown  to  those  who  sleepmnder  close  roots,  and  tread 
the  dusty  thoroughfares  of  life;  and  u  Leather  Stocking,"  to 
be  true  to  his  nature,  could  not  but  be  a  poet. 

The  baiua  maybe  said,  in  a  certain  degree,  of  "  Long 
Tom,"  who  looked  upon  the  ocean  as  "Leather  Stocking" 


COOPEU.  193 

looked  upon  the  forest,  never  feeling  his  heart  at  ease  till 
the  'waved  were  bounding  under  him.  God  had  spoken  to 
him  in  the  tempest,  and  lie  has  bowed  reverently  to  the 
awful  voice.  The  elements  with  which  he  has  contended 
from  his  childhood  have  a  language  for  him.  His  eye  reads 
it  in  the  clouds,  and  the  winds  breathe  it  in  his  ear.  He 
has  looked  upon  the  manifestations  of  their  power  till  he  has 
come  to  feel  towards  them  as  if  there  were  Mime-thing  in 
them  not  wholly  unlike  to  human  passions  and  feelings;  and 
without  eea>ing  to  rceogni/e  them  as  the  instrument  of  a 
jiower  still  higher,  he  unconsciously  cKtcnds  to  them  some 
what  of  the  reverence  which  he  feels  for  that  power  himself. 

lint  the  life  of  a  ship  is  not  the  life  of  the  woods.  Lone 
ly  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  the  loneliness  of  a  narrow  circle  — 
not  the  utter  severing  of  social  ties  which  suggest  the  un 
conscious  soliloquies  of  the  old  woodsman. 

Tom  is  always  in  the  mid>t  of  his  shipmates,  separated 
from  them  by  many  traits  of  character,  but  hound  to  them 
by  others,  and  with  the  example  of  hujmm  weakness  con 
stantly  before  him.  Simple,  upright,  and  single-hearted, 
tenacious  of  his  opinion,  firm  in  his  conviction,  and  con 
stant  in  his  attachments,  reminds  you  of  u  Leather  Stock 
ing'1  by  these  common  traits  of  pure  and  earnest  minds,  but 
'differs  from  him  in  every  thing  that  should  distinguish  the 
child  of  the  ocean  from  the  child  of  the  woods. 

We  have,  then,  three  characters  from  the  common  walk^; 
of  life,  each  admirably  fitted  for  his  humble  calling,  and 
all  equally  raised  above  it  by  traits  perfectly  consistent  with 
all  that  it  required  or  imposed.  Love  of  country,  pure  and 
disinterested,  make  the  pedlcr  a  hero;  the  intrepid,  loyal, 
18 


104:      HOMES  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

upright,  ami  devout  character  of  the  scout  gives  a  charm 
and  an  authority  to  his  judgments  and  his  words,  which 
mere  rank  and  wealth  can  never  command;  and  the  simple-, 
hearted  coxswain,  who  draws  you  to  him  in  life  by  his  ear-- 
ucstiress  and  purity,  the  defects* as  well  us  the  beauties  of  his 
character,  rises  almost  to  the  grandeur  of  martyrdom  in  his 
death.  This  power  of  elevating  the  lowly  by  the  force  of 
-i  high  moral  principle,  was  one  of  the  m<c->t  striking  char 
acteristics  of  Cooper's  genius  ;  and  it  is  the  more  deserv 
ing  of  remark,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  power  which  he  drew 
from  the  peculiar  elevation  of  his  own  moral  nature.  .  There 
has  been  but  one  man  to  whom  it  was  given  to  look  down 
upon  human  nature,  as  from  home  height  tliat  raised  him  far 
^abovo  its  contaminations,  and  .painting  it  in  all  its  forms,  its 
lights  and  its  shades,  its  beauties  and  its  deformities,  leave 
you  no  other  clue  to  his  own  character  but  the  conviction 
that  tho  mind  which  biiw  all  things  so  truly,  could  not  but 
love  tho  good.  In  all  writings  but  Shakspcarc's,  we  judge 
the  man  by  tho  book;  and  there  are  few  who  would  come 
out  from  such  a  trial  so  honorably  as  Cooper. 

The  "Spy"  was  published  in  1821;  the  "Pioneers"  in 
1823;  then  came  the  "Pilot,"  Arc.';  in  hS2tJ  he  had  covered 
the  whole  ground  of  his  invention  by  the  publication  of  the 
-Mohicans."  It  was  not  without  some  misgivings  that  ho 
had  ventured  upon  the  "  Pilot,"  for  he  well  knew  that  the 
effect  of  a.  description  depends  upon  the  skilful  use  of  de 
tails,  and  here  the  details,  if  .strictly  professional,  might  be 
unintelligible.  Tho  friends  to  whom  he  hpokc  of  his  plan 
tried  to  dissuade  him  from- it.  They  had  been  so  accus 
tomed  to  look  upon  the  ocean  as  a  monotonous  waste,  that 


COOl'KK.  195 

they  could  not  understand  how  it  could  bo  made  interesting. 
More  than  onco  he  was  upon  the  point  of  throwing  his  man 
uscript  into  tho  fire.  But  the  first  thought  of  it  had  coiuo 
ti>  him  by  one  of  those  sudden  impuUes  to  which  wo  often 
cling  more  tenaciously  than  to  deigns  that  have  been  caiv- 
*ully  matured.  Scott  had  just  published,  the  u  Pirate,'' 
which  Cooper  admired  as  a  romance,  but  was  unwilling  t«f 
accept  as  an  accurate  picture  of  sea-life.  The  authorship 
of  the.  "  Waverley  Novels"  was  still  a  secret,  ami  one  day, 
in  discussing  this  point  with  a  friend,  it  was  argued  that 
Scntt  could  not  have  written  them,  because  they  displayed' 
too  minute  and  accurate  an  acquaintance  with  too  wide  a 
range  of  .subjects.  AVhere  could  he  have  made  himself 
familiar  enough  with  the  sea,  to  write  the  "Pirate  if" 
Cooper  was  by  no  means  disposed  to  call  the  literary  mer 
its  of  the  ''Pirate"  in  question,  but  felt  himself  fully  justi 
fied  in.  disputing  its  seamanship.  The  only  way  of  doing 
this  was  by  writing  a  real  tale  of  the  sea,  and  the  result  was 
the  "Pilot." 

The  iir>t  favorable  opinion  that  ho  received  was  from  an 
Englishman,  a  man  of  taste,  and  an  intimate  friend,  but  a 
skeptic  in  all  that  related  to  American  genius,  lie  read  the 
sheets  of  the  first  volume,  and  to  Cooper's  great  surprise 
pronounced  it  good. 

A*  a  still  fuller  test,  he  chose  an  old  messmate  fur  hid 
critic,  and  read  to  him  the  greater  part  of  tho  first  volume, 
as  Scott  had  read  the  hunting  scene  of  the  "  Lady  of  the 
Lake"  to  an  old  sportsman.  The  fn-ht  half  hour  was  sufii- 
cient.  As  he  came  to  the  heating  out  of  the  '•  Devil's  <.irip," 
his  auditor  became  restless,  rose  from  his  seat,  ami  paced  the 


100  1IOHES    OF    AMKH1CAN    AUTHORS. 

floor  with  feverish  strides.  Tliero  was  no  mistaking  the  im 
pression,  for  not  a  detail  escaped  him.  "  It  is  all  very  well, 
my  lino  fellow,  but  you  have  let  your  jib  stand  too  long." 
It  was  tlio  counterpart  of"  lie  will  spoil  his  dogs,"  of  ScottV: 
hunting  critic.  Hut  Cooper,  fully  satisfied  with  the  experi- 
incut,  accepted  the  critieihiu,  ami  blew  his  jib  out  of  the 
•bolt-ropes. 

This  was  the  period,  too,  in  which  lie  mingled  most  in 
the  society  of  his  own  countrymen.  Without  absolutely  re 
moving  to  the  city,  he  passed  a  good  portion  of  the  year' 
there,  taking  an  active  part  in  many  things  which  have,  left 
pleasant  recollections,  if  not  deep  impressions,  behind  them, 
|le  was  the  founder  of  the  "bread  and  cheese  club"  of 
which  -.Bryant  and  Dr.  Francis  have  given  such  agreeable 
sketches,  and  of  which  much  more  might  be  told  that  the 
world  would  be  glad  to  know,  lie  took  a  deep  interest  in 
the  reception  of  Lafayette  —  one  of  the  few  incidents  in  our 
relations  with  the  men  who  nerved  us  when  service  brought 
no  reward,  to  which  we  can  look  back  with  pride.  It  was 
on  this  occasion  that  he  gave  that  remarkable  proof  of  his 
ready  power  of  composition  which  Dr.  Francis  has  recorded. 
The  "Castle  Garden  Ball,"  was  one  of  the  great  manifesta 
tions  of  the  day ;  and  Cooper,  after  excr.ting  himself  in  get 
ting  it  up,  laboring  hard  all  day  in  the  preparations,  and  all 
night  in  carrying  them  out,  repaired  towards  daylight  to  the 
oilice  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Charles  King,  and  wrote  out  a  full 
and  accurate  report  of  the  whole  scene,  which  appeared 
next  day  in  Mr.  King's  paper. 

lie  had  already  formed,  as  early  as  18:*;*,  the  design  of 
illustrating  American  scenery  by  a  series  of  tales,  and  spoke 


coopKit.  197 

freely  of  it  to  his  inoro  intimate  friends.  Some  of  his  excur 
sions  were  studies  of  locality.  For  "Lionel  Lincoln,"  he 
had  visited  Uoston ;  aiul  it  may  not  bo  uninteresting  to 
Ithodu  Islanders  to  know  that  part  of  that  work  was  written 
in  Providence,  in  a  house  yet  standing  just  on  the  verge  of 
the  old  elm  trees  of  College  street.  It  was  then,  too,  prohu- 
1)1  v,  that  lie  stiulied  the  scene  of  the  Opening  chapters  of  the 
« Ital  Itover." 

Many  a  pleasant  page -might  he  tilled  with  the  records 
of  these,  «lay»:  his  studies  of  Shak.-pearu  in  ihe  wonderful 
interpretations  of  Kean  ;  his.  conversations  with  Mathew; 
his  rumbles  with  Dekay  ;  his  daily  chit-chats  and  discus 
sions  with  old  messmates  at  the  City  Hotel,  and  a  thousand 
other  things,  trifles  often  in  themselves,  bnt  which,  acting 
upon  a  mind  hy  which  so  many  other  minds  have  hccn 
moved,  would  have  a  deep  and  permanent  interest. 

It  would  be  pleasant,  too,  to  meet  him  once  more  on  his 
favorite  element ;  follow  him  across  the  Atlantic  ;  watch  the 
cilects  of  the  scenery  and  society  of  the  old  world  upon  a 
mind  so  familiar  with  those  of  the  new,  and  fee  how  far  the 
preference-  which  he  had  BO  boldly  avowed  for  the  insti 
tutions  of  his  own  country,  would  be  able  to  resist  those 
temptation*  by  which  Romany  convictions  have  been  fell  a- 
•ken.  JLis,  however,  were  of  surer  growth. 

When  he  sailed  for  Europe,  in  182ti,  his  American  repu 
tation  was  at  its  height.  The  department  which  he  had  cho 
sen  was  so  -different  from  that  of  Mr.  Irving,  that  no  fair- 
minded  reader  ever  thought  of  comparing  them.  Bryant 
and  llalleek  had  published  nothing  in  prose  :  und  the  grace 
ful  productions  of  Miss  Sodgwick,  although  they  belonged  ,. 


IDS  HOMES    OF    AMKKICAN    AUTHOUS. 

to  the  same  class,  seemed  to  suggest  a  comparison  with  Miss 
bklgeworth's,  rather  than  with  his.  His  countrymen  were 
proud  of  him.  His  friends  expressed  their  sentiment  a  by  a 
public  dinner  —  tlie  first  tribute  of  the  kind,  we  believe,  ever 
r':ii<!  on  this  hide  of  the  Atlantic  to  literary  eminence.  And 
if  ever  ship  went  freighted  with  .proud  hopes  and  kind  wishes, 
it  was  that  which  bore  him  in  his  second  visit  toJLhe  old 
world.  How  different  from  the  iirst! 

His  reputation  had  preceded  him.  11  »•  was  mot  with  a 
kind  welcome  to  the  classic  circle  of  Holland  house;  was 
rttjoii  on  intimate  terms  with  Rogers ;  ; Scott  Bought  him  out 
in  1'aris,  and  gladly  renewed  the  acquaintance  in  London  ; 
lie  lived  -in  friendly  intimacy  with  Lafayette ;  and  found, 
wherever  he  went,  that  kind  of  welcome  which  was  most 
grateful  to  his  earnest  and  -independent  character,  lie  was 
fond  of  society.  It  was  a  pleasant  study,  and  a  kind  of  ex 
ercise,  that  seemed  essential  to  him.  His  conversational 
powers  were  of  a  high  order,  and  he  loved  to  bring  them 
<mt.  But  he  was  a  good  listener,  and  though  tenacious  of 
his  opinions,  a  fair  disputant.  He  was  naturally  fond,  there 
fore,  of  the  society  of  literary  men,  when  he  could  meet  them 
as  men,  and  not  as  lions.  "  You  learn  nothing  about  a 
man,"  we  once  heard  him  say,  u  when  you  meet  him  at  a 
show  dinner,  and  he  sits  up  to  talk  for  you  instead  ot 
talking  with  you.  When  1  was  in  London,  Wordsworth 
came  to  town,  and  I  was  asked  to  meet  him  at  one  of 
those  displays;  but  I  had  seen  enough  of  them  already, 
and  would  not  go."  *vl>ut  you  met  him  afterwards, 
my  dear,"  said  Airs.  Cooper.  "  Yes,  at  Uogers's,  and 
was  very  much  pleased  with  him  ;  but  it  was  because  J 


COOPER,  190 

met  him  in  a  place  where  ho  fult  at  homo,  and  let  himself 
out  freely." 

Cooper  has  told  the  history  of  the  greater  part  of  the 
ikcxt  seven  years  in  the  tea  volumes  of  his  "  Switzerland," 
and  'Uileanings  in  Europe," — one  of  his  most  characteristic 
works,  fresh,  iinn  and  manly,  full  of  beautiful  descriptions, 
important  remarks,  and  lively  anecdotes,'  written^* exactly  a* 
he  talked,  and  giving  an  accurate  picture  of  his  own  mind. 
The  part  of  his  residence  abroad  to  which  he  used  to  look 
hack  with  most  pleasure,  was  his  visit  to  Italy,  of  which  his 
two  bunny  little  volumes  are  a  true  and  delightful  record, 
lie  had  a  singular  tact  in  choosing  his  houses.  In 'Florence 
he  lived  in  a  delightful  little  villa  just  a  stoiiu's.  throw  from 
the  city,  where  he  could  look  out  upon  green  leaves,  and 
•write  to  the  music  of-  birds.  At  Naples,  afkr  going  the 
usual  rounds,  he  (settled  himself  for  the  hummer  in  Tamo's 
villa,  at  Sorcnto,  with  that  glorious  view  of  sea,  and  bay, 
and  city,  and  mountain  under  his  eye,  and  the  surf  dashing 
almost  directly  under  his  windows, 

Two  or  three  years  after  his  return,  we  met  him  one  day  in 
Broadway,  just  as  we  were  upon  the  point  of  sailing  for  Europe 
again,  lie  was  walking  leisurely  along,  with  his  coat  open, 
and  a  great  string  of  onions  in  his  hand.  We  had  nearly 
passed  by  without  recognizing  him,  when  seeing  several  peo 
ple  turn  to  look  at  him,  and  then  npeak  to  one  another  as 
if  there  was  something  worth  observing,  we  turned  too,  and 
•behold,  it  was  Cooper.  "I  have  turned  farmer,"  said  he, 
atW  the  iirst  greetings,  and  raising  his  bunch  of  onions, 
i%  but  am  obliged  to  come  to  town  now  and  then,  as  you  see." 
We  asked  him  if  ho  had  any  commands  for  Italy.  "  Ke- 


200  HOMES    OF    AMEKICAN    A17T1I011S. 

incinbcr  mo  khully  to  Grconough,  I  ought  to  write  him, 
but  I  never  can  iimko  up  my  mind  to  write  a  letter,  when  I 
can  find  any  kind  of  a  pretext  for  not  writing  it.  He  must 
trust  to  the  regard  which  he  knows  I  really  do  feel  lor  him." 
"Do  you  not  almost  feel  tempted  to  take  a  run  back  )\»ir- 
fielf?"  "Yes,  indeed.  If  there  is  any  country  out  of  my 
o\vn  in  which  I  would  wish  to  live,  it  is  It.Jy.  There  is  no 
place  where  mere  living  is  such  a  luxury/' 

One  thing,  however,  was  very  annoying  to  htm,  and  that 
was  the  ignorance  and  prejudices  of  the  Knglish  in  all  that 
related  to  America.  It  seemed  to  him,  at  times,  as  if  they 
AVould  have  been  much  more  cordial  to  him  if  he  had  been 
any  thing  but  an  American,  lie  never  let  an  opportunity 
slip  him  of  standing  up  boldly  and  iirmly  tor  the  institu 
tions  of  his  native  country.  It  was  with  this  feeling  that,  he 
wrote  the  "Notions  of  a  Travelling  Bachelor,"— a  work 
which  should  have  made  his  countrymen  pause  a  while, 
at  least,  before  they  accepted  the  calumnies  which  were 
heaped  upon  him  for  the  patriotic  though  unwelcome  (ruths 
of  some  of  his  subsequent  volumes.  "While  he  was  living  in 
Paris  a  severe  attack  was  made  upon  the  economical  system 
of  the  American  government.  Cooper  came  forward  and 
refuted  the  ungrounded  assertions  of  the  royalists  in  a  pam 
phlet,  as  remarkable  for  accuracy  of  information  as -for  its 
energy  and  "literary  power.  Government,  which  was  then 
making  war  upon  Lafayette,  by  calumniating  the  United 
States,  was  exceedingly  irritated.  The  government  papers 
continued  their-  attacks,  and  enlisted  an  American  in  their 
service,  who  was  afterwards  rewarded  by  a  Chargeship -from 
our  own  government.  Cooper  stood  his  ground  manfully, 


COO  FEB.  201 

mooting  every  assertion  by  unquestionable  statistics  and  an 
array  of  facts  and  cogency  of  argument  that  set  the  question 
lor  ever  nt  rest,  for  every  candid  inquirer. 

He  was  equally  earnest  in  bringing  forward  the  claims 
of  our  poets.  "We  have  already  alluded  to  his  conversation 
with  Godwin  upon  American  literature.  lie  had  been  ex 
ceedingly  annoyed  on  that  occasion,  on  finding  that  his 
memory,  ever  treacherous  in  quotations,  would/ scarcely  fur 
nish  him  with  a  line- of  Bryant  or  Halleek  to  bear  him  out  in 
his  assertions.  A  few  days  afterward  he  was  to  meet  a  party 
at  .UogcrsV,  and  resolving  not  to  let  his  friends  Buffer  by  his 
want  of  memory,  took  a  volume  with  him. 

In  Paris  his  stylo  of  living  was  an  admirable  illustration 
of  his  conceptions  of  the  duties  and  position  of  an  American 
gentleman,  lie  occupied  part  of  a  handsome  Hotel  in  the 
"  rue  St.  Manr,"  keeping  his  carriage,  and  the  service  re 
quired  by  a  genteel  and  modest  establishment.  His  doors 
weri»  always  open  to  every  American  who  had  claims  to  his 
society;  and  you  were  sure  to  meet  there  the  men  of  both 
countries  whom  you  would  most  wish  to  know.  One  of  his 
most  intimate  friends  at  this  time  was  Morse,  the  inventor 
of  the  Telegraph :  and  the  contrast  of  the  two  in  their  fre- 
quvnt  rambles  has  furnished  a  lively  and  characteristic  par* 
agraph  in  Willis's  ".Pencilling*  by  the  AVay."  Ho  was  par 
ticularly  fond  of  the  society  of  artists,  visiting  them  in  their 
studios,  welcoming  them  to  his  house,  and  wherever  lie  felt 
that  it  was  needed,  giving  or  procuring  them  commissions, 
There  is  scarcely  one,  if  there  is  even  one,  who  visited  Eu 
rope  during  those  seven  years,  but  what  has  brought  back 
pleasant  recollections  of  his  intercourse  with  Cooper. 


202  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTI1011S. 

Meanwhile  nothing  was  allowed  to  break  in  upon  his 
Jkerury  duties.  A  portion  of  every  day  was  *et  aside  for 
'composition ;  and  by  this  systematic  application,  every  twelve 
months  told  a  talo  of  labor  accomplished  which  seemed  a 
mystery  to  those  who  were  ignorant  of  the  secret  of  his 
industry.  The,  "Prairie"  and  "  lied  Rover"  appeared  when 
he  had  been  abroad  but  little  over  a  year ;  and  live  others  wen* 
added  to  the  list  of  his  works  before  he  returned  in  ISM, 
without  counting  the  "Travelling  1  Bachelor,"  the  letters 
which  formed  the  basis  of  his  ten  volumes  upon  Europe, 
gud  the  controversy  to  which  wo  have  already  alluded. 

His  time,  after  his  return  to  the  United  States,  was  chiefly 
divided  between  New  York,  Philadelphia,  and  Cooperstown, 
where  he  had  repaired  the  tine  old  mansion  which  his  lather 
had  erected  when  the  first  hearthstone  was  laid  on  the  hhores 
vof  the  Otsogo.  Originally  it  stood  alone,  with  the  hike  be 
fore  its  doors,  and  the  forest,  which  he  has  described  so 
beautifully  in  the  Pioneers,  in  full  view  on  the  right.  .Hut 
now  the  hamlet  had  grown  to  a  village,  and  the  village  to  a 
town,  till  the  once  almost  solitary  representative  of  civilization 
was  surrounded  by  all  the  signs  of  a  thriving  and  industri 
ous  population.  Still,  early  a>sociations  and  its  own  natural 
beauty,  bound  him  to  the  spnt  ;  and  to  a  mind  like  his, 
which  looked  upon  the  grave  without  fear,  there  must  have 
been  a  deep  pleasure,  though  a  melancholy  one,  iu  the 
thought  that  his  would  lie  amid  the  scenes  which  had  sug 
gested  Borne  of  his  most  beautiful  creations. 

A. glance  at  the  engraving  will  give  a  better  idea  uf  the 
external  appearance  of  'rOtsego  Hall',"  than  any  description 
which  we  could  pen.  There  is  something  in  the  air  of  it 


• 


m::  IN 


•  '  • 


'  T!    • 


. 


pj 

v> 

i 


'•i'-iW 


\M 


• 


c  o  o  p  K  it .  20:1 

which  curries  you  back  to  u  very  different  period,— a  quiet 
dignity,  well  united  ti>  the  "  lord.sliip  of  a  Patent,"  and  the 
culm  grandeur  of  the  primeval  f«uvst.  The  proportions  tiro 
good,  suggesting  at  tir.>t  glattco  flu*  idea  of  Ainplo-spacctj  ami 
convenient  .arrangement  within,  Tlu*  nfcliiicctural  embel- 
l-i>hnicnts  are  rirh,  aiui  xvouhl  |>rolial>ly  l>o  thought  tooiiuirli 
--»»,  if  tlwy  wi'H'  Jiut  ill  NU4-li  jH'ilrrt  krr|»iii^  uinl  if  llu-rt'  \\trr 
not  something  in  the  rich  folia tio  aiul  (»!irul»bory  ununul  thoin, 
\\Ijirh  wiiuhl  MI  in  t«>  Iruvo  no  inetliitiu  hot\\i-«-ii  a  -ii.ij.li- 
«%otta%ir»'  «»r  ornanu'ntal  arehik'fturn.  "I'lu*  fiiUowing  dc*scrij> 
ti«»n  iVoin  a  much  U'linirnl  JH-JI  convoyh  ^o  full  aii'd  Nih-tu<'- 
t.»ry  an  ith-a  of  this  .^}M»t  that  \vt»  are  mnvillin^  to  «llNli^»n' 
it  l»y  any  ^arblin^  and  rewriting  of  t»nr  o\vn  : 

•M)tsi'i;o  Hail  was  Ituilt  at  the  «•!«'-«•  of  the  la-t  ct-ntury 
by  Jiuljre  ('•M.jK-r.  It  5,-i  a  brick  buihlin^  tla^  bricks  having 
bei'ii  iiuuh-  f«»r  the,  j»iirjto>o  at  the  outlet  «»f  tlu»  I^ik<».  The 
tttiors  wen-  of  original  foiv-t  oak.  It  contains  a  lar^e  hall, 
according  to  the  favorite  inoile  of  building  at  that,  day  ; 
the  roniu  is  nearly  fitly  fn't  in  length  by  twenty-four  in 
width,  and  wav  occupied  as  the  rating  and  sUting  room -oJ 
the  family  during  the  laM  generation.  Airs.  Cooper,  Judge 
Cooju-r^  wife,  \va^  very  partial  to  llo\vcrs,~-  a  ta^te  much  le*.s 
eoininoa  fifty  years  ago  than  to-day;  and  nearly  a  third,  of 
the  hall  was  lilh-d  \\ith  gretMV-hon-.i»  plants  at  the  time  of  her 
death,  in  IN! 7.  The  hoiii-e  received  its  name  from  Judge 
Cooper;  but  for  a  lung  time  was  more  frequently  called  lite 
*4  Mansion  Houso"  in  the  village.  A  double  a\enu«-  of  j»»p-. 
laps  reached  formerly  from  the  gate  to  the  hou-e,  the  trees 
having  been  given  to  Judge  Cooper  by  Mr.  liingharn,  of 
Philadelphia,  who  tir>t  introdueod  them  into  America.. 


HOMES    OF    A  Mh  Kir  AN     A  U  Til  Oil  8, 

"  On  Mr.  Cooper's  return  from  Kurope,  the  hour,e  passed  into 
his  possession,  aiul  he  immediately  began  repairing  it.  For 
some  years  previous  it  luul  been  uninhabited.  The  poplars, 
little  suited  to  tho  climate)  were  all  iu  a  condition  that  iv- 
•juired  they  should  bo  cut  down;  and  the  whole'character  ot' 
I  he  grounds  was  changed  by  winding  walks  and  new  planta 
tions,  Mr.  Cooper  .setting  out  many  of  the  trees  with  hi*  nun 
hands.  The  house  was  thoroughly  repaired  and  improved, 
although  the  lower  story  remained  much  as  it  was  built.  Mr. 
Cooper  was  very  partial  to  its  doors  and  window  shutters  of 
•the  native  oak  of  the  country;  entrances  were  also  put  tip  to 
protect  tho  principal  doors,  which  Mr.  Cooper  considered  as 
necessary  in  our  climate.  The  architectural  deigns  of  the 
changes  were  all  drawn  by  I'rofcs.-or  Mumc,  an  intimate  friend 
of  Mr.  Cooper,  who  was  in  Coopcrstown  at  the  time  the  work 
was  going  on.  An  old  block-hou>e,  the  only  building  btand- 
ing  on  the  spot  when  Judge  Cooper  came  there,  was  found 
in  the  grounds  now  occupied  by  the  Hall :  a  few  of  the  older 
apple  trees  about  the  place  are  also  older  than  the  village. 
The  graves  of  two  deserters  fhot  during  Clinton's  expedition, 
were  found  within  the  grounds  of.  the  Mall;  and  an  old  iron 
swivel  was  also  dug  up  in  digging  the  cellars  of  a  house  since 
burnt  within  the  banie  bounds." 

Iu  this  quiet  retreat  Cooper  wrote  hcventecn  new  works 
of  fiction,  partly  in  completion  of  his  original  design,  and 
some  suggested  by  important  questions  of  the  day,  in  which 
he  always  took  a  lively  interest,  unbiassed  by  local  or  party 
pas;  ions.  Hero  too,  or  rather  while  dividing  his  time  be 
tween  what  -he  again  called  home  and  his  two  favorite 
cities,  he  wrote  his  "  Naval  History  of  the  Tinted  Stales," 


COOFK'R.  -<'•'• 

the  "  Lives  of  Xaval  Commander*,*1  two  or  throe  volume* 
government,  and  several  pamphlets  and  reviews,  upon 
connected,  for  the  most  part,  with  naval  history. 
His  contest  with-  the,  daily  press  Mihjcctod  him  to  many 
jiefty  annoyances,  which  would  have  worn  sadly  upon  a 
mind  less  resolute  or  indcpcndont.  Hut  he  came  out  of  it 
'  triumphant,  with  new  claim**  to  the  rc>peet  of  tho>e  vln-M 
good  opinion  he  coveted.  In  1^H>  he  made  arrangement* 
with  Mr.  Viitiunn  for  the  ropuhlieation  of  the,  M  Leaiher-tock- 
in^  Tales"  and  part  of  his  sea  noveN,  with  new  introduction* 
and  such  corrections  as  he  ini^ht  wi>h  to  inake,  he  fore  ^rivin«; 
tliem  t«>  the  world  in  their  last  and  permanent  form. 

Soon  after,  he  he^an  to  feel-  some  indications  of  disease. 
His  feet  became  tender,  and  he  was  iinahle  to  UM-  them  a^ 
freely  as  he  had  Keen  accustomed  to  do.  Ho  tt|M»logited  to 
us  ono  morning  at  I'utnam'ti  for  not  ri>in^  to  fhake 'hands.- 
*•  My  feet  are  HO  tender,"  naid  he,  »» that  I  do  not  like  !'» 
stand  any  longer  than  I  can  help."  Yet  when  we  walked 
out  toother  into  Itroadway,  we  could  not  help  turning 
cvi-ry  now  and  then  to  admire  his  commanding  figure  and 
firm  hearing.  Sixty  years  seemed  to  sit  as  lightly  on  hiiti 
as  fifty  on  the  shoulders  of  most  men,  and  when  we  ivmem- 
hered.  the  astonishing  proofs  which  he  had  given  of  fertility 
and  vigor,  we  could  not  hut  hclieve  that  he  had  many  a 
new  creation  in  store  for  us  yet.  Hut  the  end  was  drawing 
nigh.  His  hi>t  visit  to  New- York  was  in  April  of  la^t  year, 
and  the  change  in  his  appearance  wasr  already  Mich  a-  to 
excite  serious  apprehensions,  among  his  friends.  During  the 
first  few  weeks  after  his  return  he  seemed  to  he  growing 
hotter,  ami  wrote  favorable  accounts  of  him-elf  to  hi*  friend 


,     206  HOMES    OF    AMK1UCAN    AUTHORS. 

and  medical  adviser,  Dr.  Francis.  Hut  soon  the  disease 
returned  in  full  force,  rapidly  gaining  upon  the  vital  organs, 
and  terminating,  at  last,  in  dropsy.  Ilia  death  is  yet  too 
ivecnt  to  make  his  la.st  hours  a  lit  subject  for  description. 
l)r.  Francis  has  told  all  that  can  yet  ho  told  without  tres 
passing  too  far  on  the  sanctity  of  private  feelings,  and  borne 
ample  testimony  to  the  beautiful  example  which  he  gave  of 
resignation  and  faith,  lie  died  on  the  J4th  of  September, 
1851,  at  half-past  one  in  the  afternoon.  One  day  mure,  and 
he  would  have  completed  his  sixty-second  year. 

Ilryunt  IUH  truly  said  that  Cooper's  failings  wcro  of  that 
kind  which  are  obvious  to  all  the  world.  They  were  the 
failings  of  a  strong,  original,  active  mind,  Conscious  of  it* 
powers,  patient  of  observation  and  research,  but  accustom- 
fd,  from  early  habit  as  well  as  natural  tendencies,  to  self- 
reliance  and  independent  judgment.  His  convictions  were 
earnest,  for  they  partook  of  the  earnestness  and  sincerity  of 
his  nature,  and  he  could  no  more  conceal  them  from  others 
than  he  could  disguise  them  to  himself,  lie  was  not  an  ex 
tensive  reader,  but  lie  read  thoughtfully,  and  his  memory, 
though  defective  in  quotations,  was  singularly  tenacious  of 
fiic'ts.  His  powers  of  observation  were  remarkable,  and  he 
naturally  learned  to  place  confidence  in  them.  AVe  have 
always  fancied  that  ]>o\vcr  of  observation  was  more  or  Irs* 
modified  by  power  of  sight,  and  surely  that  keen,  gray  eye 
of  his  KIW  things  with  wonderful  distinctness.  Thus  obser 
vation  possessed  a  double  charm  for  him.  lie  loved  it  us 
the  pleasant  exertion  of  a  power  which  nature  had  bestowed 
•upon  him  in  its  highest  perfection,  and  he  loved  it  too,  be 
cause,  for  every  thing  which  lay  within  its  scope,  he  could 
•  rely  upon  it. 


COOPER.  207 

In  such  minds  the*  power  df  original  observation  is  gen 
erally  accompanied  l>y  the  power  of  original  thought.  What 
they  see  for  tlieiufielveB,  they  jiulgc  tbr  themselves*  aiul  with 
a  promptness  and  vigor  that  arc  in  exact  proportion  to  the 
cleanups  and  accuracy  t»f  their  observations.  In  their  inter 
course  with  other  men,  they  will  cxprc>s  hohlly  what  they 
have  thought  independently,  and  their  earnest  advocacy  «»f 
tlu-ir  own  opinion*  will  often  he  interpreted  into  a  haughty 
contempt  lV»r  the  upinions  of  other*.  Thus  (.'oopcr'g  original 
ity  was  often  called  pride,  and  his  independence  overhearing, 
He  was  accused  of  conceit,  became  he  claimed  an  accuracy' 
for  his  own  observations  which  he  knew  that  they  po- »» -M»df 
and  taxed  with  ob&tinacy  because  he  would  not  give  up  an 
opinion  without  a  reason.  Hut  no  man  ever  knew  him  Weil, 
who  did  not  come  to  feel  somewhat  of  the  Mime  kind  of  con- 
fideiiee  in  his  observations  which  he  placed  in  them  him 
ftelf,  or  conversed  with  him  often  without  being  convinced 
that  every  thing  which  could  claim  to  be  a  reason  would  be 
listened  to  and  examined  with  respectful  consideration.  Jf 
his  convictions  had  been  less  earnest,  or  his  mind  less  tirm, 
we  Khould  still  have  had  many  a  long  year  to  wait  tor 
"Leather  Stocking"  an  1  *' Ling  Tom." 

lie  was  a  linn  believer  in  the  right  of  property.  He 
regarded  it  a^  an  essential  element  of  social  organ i/at ion, 
which  e\ cry  good  citi/.eii  was  bound  to  uphold.  Three  of 
his'later  works  were  written  in  fulfilment  of  what  he  regard 
ed  as  his  owu  duty  in  this  question.  He  would  admit  of  no 
denial  of  the  principle-,  but  when  any  violation  of  it  that, 
could  be  tolerated  occurred  on  his  own  grounds,  he  could 
he,  lenient  towards  the  offender,  and  even  kind.  One  day 


1 
208  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

lie  caught  a  man  stealing  fruit  from  hin  garden.  The  case 
was  HO  flagrant  a  one  that  lie  might  have  punished  it  severe 
ly.  But  instead  of  flying  into  a  passion  and  Kending  lor  a 
constable,  he  reproved  the  culprit  mildly,  told  him  how 
great  a  wrong  it  was  doing  him  to  make  his  neighbors  be 
lieve 'that  there  was  no  other  way  of  getting  at  his  fruit  but 
by  stealing  it,  and  bidding  him,  the  next  time  that  he  wanted 
any  thing,  come  in  at  the  gate  like  a  true  man  and  ask  for  it, 
helped  him  iili  his  basket  and  let  him  go. 

His  love  of  detail  made  him  minutely  exact  in  all  hi* 
business  transactions.  He  was  always  open  and  liberal  in 
his  bargains,  but  ho  loved  to  make  them  accurately,  discuss 
them  in  all  their  bearings,  and  draw  up  the  contract  with  his 
*'.wn  hand  and  a  business-like  method  which  looked  like  any 
tiring  but  romance.  The  facsimile  on  the  opposite  page  is  a 
good  specimen  of  this  trait  of  his  character,  which,  like  all 
the  other  traits  of  a  strong  mind,  pervaded  his  whole  intel 
lectual  organization.  It  was  constantly  breaking  out  in  his 
conversation,  AVe  remember  to  have  heard  him  explain 
minutely  to  a  foreigner  who  had  ju*t  used  voyage  for  pas 
sage,  the  difference  between  the  two  words.-  <  hi  another 
occasion,  while  he  was  writing  the  u  I'ravo,"  lie  stopped  us 
xwc  morning  to  inquire  how  far  social  usage  admitted  of 
substituting  tiynora  for  &iyn<nilmi  in  addressing  an  unmar 
ried  lady.  It  was  the  natural  habit  of  his  mind,  a  conscien 
tious  exactness  extending  to  every  thing  in  which  he  engag- 
rd,  and  to  which  we  owe  the  minute  detail  and  patient  elab 
oration  which  make  his  pictures  so  truthful. 

He  was  a  generous  man  in  the  best  and  truest  sense  of 
tho  word,  liberal  in  the  use  of  his  money,  but  judicious  and 


COOPER.  209 

discriminating  in  hia  liberality.  Money  he  regarded  as  a 
means  of  gratifying  his  tastes,  and  ho  gratified  them  to  tire 
extent  of  his  means,  living  in  a  style  suited  to  his  position 
and  his  means,  indulging  his  luvc  for  society,  his  love  of 
travel,  his  love  for  art  and  all  those  elegant  pleasures  which 
contribute  so  much  to  the  healthful  action  of  the  mind.  Hut 
he  felt  that  it  was  also  a  responsibility,  and  one  that  could 
not  bo  lightly  thrown  off.  lie  was  always  ready  to  give, 
where  the  gift  was  a  succor  to  want, Hot  an  encouragement 
to  voluntary  idleness.  lie  loved,  too,  to  encourage  rising 
talent,  particularly  that  of  young  artists.  He  gave  them 
orders,  opened  his  house  to  them,  and  cheerfully  acknow 
ledged  their  claims  to  his  sympathy.  Some  of  the  instances 
of  his  ready  sympathies,  and  the  delicacy  and  good  sense 
with  which  they  were  manifested,  have  occurred  within  our 
owu  knowledge,  and  will,  we  trust,  one  day  be  made  known. 

Some  of  the  controversies  in  which  he  was  engaged, 
have  left,  as  controversies  always  do,  false  impressions  of 
him  upon  many  minds.  He  was  earnest,  and  was  therefore 
supposed  to  be  bitter,  and  the  sensitivcne*s  which  he  was 
unwilling  to  acknowledge  to  himself  or  to  others,  oftcli  expos 
ed  him  to  ungrounded  and  even  unwarrantable  suspicions. 
A  single  example  will  be  sufficient  to  show  how  far  he  rose 
above  those  vulgar  and  degrading  passions  which  wilful 
prejudice  has  sometimes  dared  to  attribute  to  him. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  account  which  he  has  given  of 
the  battle  of  Lake  Erie,  in  his  "  Naval  History,"  involved 
him  in  a  controversy  with  Lieutenant  Mackenzie.  In  the 
height  of  the  discussion,  and  just  as  he  was  carrying  a 
severe  examination  of  'Mackenzie's  version  of  the  battle 
14 


210  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

through  the  press,  the  Somers  returned  from  her  ill-fated 
and,  memorable  cruise.  Cooper  instantly  suppressed  his 
•paper  at  the  expense  of  a  round  sum  to  the  printer.  "The 
poor  fellow,"  said  lie,  "  will  have  enough  to  do  to  escape  the 
consequences  of  his  own  weakness.  It  is  no  time  to  press 
upon  him  now." 

In  conversation  with  Cooper,  you  could  not  fail  to  be 
struck  with  his  fondness  for  realities.  It  seemed  btninge,  at 
tirst,  that  a  man  who,  for  full  half  his  career,  had  scarcely 
passed  a  day  without  writing  two  or  three  pages  of  fiction, 
should,  in  what  appeared  to  bo  the  habitual  train  of  his  . 
thoughts,  be  HO  busy  with  tho  positive  questions  of  life. 
He  possessed  one  of  those  active  minds  which  find  rest  in 
change  of  object,  rather  than  in  repose,  lie  sought  relief 
fcoiii  invention  in  observation  and  discussion.  He  loved 
calm  inquiry,  lie  loved  to  think,  and  his  thoughts  have 
loss  of  tho  ingenuity  of  the  poet  than  of  the  clearness  and 
justness  of  the  man  of  the  world.  His  opinions  upon  im 
portant  questions  of  public  policy  and  private  duty,  the 
definite  rights  of  individuals,  and  tho  complex  and  com 
prehensive  interests  of  nations,  were  the  result  of  study 
and  reflection,  and  he  held  to  them  iirmly.  lie  was  firmly 
attached  to  the  institutions  of  his  country,  not  merely  from 
habit  and  as  a  duty  which  his  birth  imposed  upon  him,  but 
because  he  believed  in  them ;  and  he  believed  in  them, 
because  reading,  observation  and  reflection  had  taught  him 
that  they  were  better  adapted  than  those  of  any  other  age 
or  nation  to  promote  the  best  interests  of  mankind.  l»ut  he 
was  painfully  aware  of  our  faults,  which  he  laid  bare  with  a 
boldness  which  posterity  will  admire,  though  his  eontempo 


COOPER.  211 

raries  repaid  him  for  his  frankness  with  calumny  and  neg 
lect. 

Cooper's  literary  habits  were  in  many  respects  like  Scott's, 
lie  never  laid  out  a  careful  plan  beforehand  and  worked  up 
to  it  by  regular  progression.  His  first  conception  was  uii 
indefinite  outline,  relating  rather  to  the  general  object  than 
to  the  details.  The  characters  once  conceived,  the  incidents 
rose  from  them  as  their  natural  development.  Altieri  U  11s 
us  that  all  his  tragedies  were  invented  at  the  opera.  Scott 
used  to  4  simmer'  over  his  morning  ta^k  in  his  dressing-room. 
Cooper  was  a  great  walker,  and  seldom  failed,  when  alone, 
to  be  turning  over  the  subject  of  a  chapter  in  his  mind  so  a* 
to  come  to  his  task  with  something  like  definite  preparation. 
Hut  his  imagination  once  excited,  became  strangely  wilful  in 
her  flights,  and  the  page  that  grew  under  his  pen  was  olU-n 
very  unlike  the  mental  sketch.  Jlu  wrote  rapidly,  but  cor 
rected  and  altered  with  a  care  which  seems  almost  incredi 
ble  when  we  consider  how  much  he  has  written.  Atone 
time  he  had  set  for  himself  a  daily  stent,  but  we  are  unable 
to  say  how  long  he  adhered  to  it.  In  most  cases  his  manu 
script  went  to  the  compositor  chapter  by  chapter  as  fa>t  as 
it  was  written,  and  the  work  once  fairly  olf  his  hands,  he 
was  glad  to  lose  sight  of  it  and  pass  to  something  new.  In 
the  early  part  of  his  careen,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  consult 
ing  his  friends,  but  practice  and  success  gave  him  conli- 
dcnce,  and  few  we  believe,  if  any  of  his  later  works,  ever 
went  beyond  his  family  circle  till  they  were  actually 
published. 

A\re  would  gladly  go  further,  and  speak  of  other  qualities 
which  are  no  less  deserving  of  record,  than  those  which  we 


212   ,  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

have  touched  upon  so  cursorily.  But  wo  have  already 
exceeded  our  limits,  awl  this  imperfect  sketch  must  be 
brought  to  a  close.  Yet  wo  cannot  bid  adieu  to  a  subject  on 
which  we  feel  BO  deeply,  without  expressing  tho  hope  that 
this  great  man  will  soon  recievc  at  the  hands  of  his  own 
countrymen  the  same  reward  which  he  lias  already  received 
fyom  foreigners.  Xo  productions  of  the  American  mind 
have  been  spread  so  extensively  as  the  writings  of  Cooper. 
In  every  country  of  Europe  you  will  liiul  them  hide  by  side 
with  its  own  favorite  classics.  In  a  volume  fresh  from  the. 
leading  publishing  house  of  Paris,  we  iind  the  prospectus  of 
a  new  edition  of  all  his  novels,  with  vignettes,  and  in  the 
favorite  form  of  fashionable  typography,  on  the  name  sheet 
with  the  announcement  of  new  editions  of  Hcranger,  La  mar- 
tine,  Thierry,  Thiers,  and  Scott.  An  eminent  physician  of 
our  city  was  called  the  other  day  to  attend  some  emigrants 
recently  arrived  from  Germany,  lie  was  anxious  to 'learn 
where  they  had  got  their  knowledge  of  the  country  of  their 
adoption.  "We  learnt  it  all  from  Cooper,"  was  the  reply. 
*'We  have  four  translations  of  his  works  in  German,  and  we 
all  read  them."  "Have  you  any  thing  new  from  Cooper?" 
"  Wlmt  is'  Cooper  writing  now  f"  arc  (juestions  that  havo 
been  asked  us  again  and  again  in  Italy,  where  his  works  are 
as  well  known  as  those  of  any  native.  And  this,  let  it  bo 
remembered,  is  not  the  transient  interest  excited  by  a  clever 
sketch  of  some  new  scene,  which  palls  upon  the  taste  the 
moment  that  the  novelty  has  ceased,  but  a  reputation  sus 
tained  and  continued  by  repeated  trials  in  a  period  of  unex 
ampled  literary  fertility. 

And  w.hero  are  the   records   of  our  gratitude  for.  thia 


L'Ool'KH.  213 

great  work  which  he  has  dune  fur  us  ?  Where  aro  the  busts 
ami  the  statues  which  are  to  tell  posterity  what  a  noble  form 
was  once  the  tenement  of  that  noble  mind  ?  The  columns 
and  the  tablets,  to  point  out  to  the  pilgrim  and  the  stranger, 
his  favorite  haunts  and  the  scenes  of  his  labors?  At 
Florence,  in  the  great  square  of  the  Cathedral,  within  the 
shadow  of  Giotto's  tower,  one  of  the  first  things  to  which 
your  attention  is  directed,  is  a  little  slab  of  white  marble 
with  the  simple  inscription  of  'Sasso  di  Dante/  Then-  i> 
nothing  historically  positive  about  it,  but  an  old  tradition 
says,  that  this  was  the  place  where  Dante  loved  to  comv  and 
gaze  at  the  immortal  dome  of  Brunelleschi,  and  repentant 
Florence,  jealous  of  every  record  of  the  son  whom  >he 
condemned  to  exile  and  the  stake,  put  up  this  ILtlc  tablet  on 
the  spot,  to  tell  by  what  feet  it  had  been  hallowed. 

And  now  that  the  grave  has  closed  fur  the  first  time 
amongst  us,  over  a  man  great  in  those  things  which  make 
nations  great  forever,  shall  his  dust  mingle  like  common 
earth,  with  the  unknown  thousands  who  lived  for  themselves 
and  are  forgotten?  Shall  he  thus  pass  from  amongst  us 
in  the  fulness  of  his  maturity,  and  the  year  of  his  death 
bear  no  record  in  our  annals?  It  cannot,  be  that  where 
wealth  is  lavished  with  eager  competition  in  procr.-Mnn.-,  and 
pageants  and  vain  displays,  which  fade  from  the  memory 
with  the  last  shout  of  the  weary  multitude,  there  should  not 
be  enough  of  manly  pride  to  pay  the  debt  of  gratitude  and 
justice.  It  cannot  be  that  the  wealth  ami  liberality  of  New- 
York,  should  fail  in  this  freshness  of  her  expanding  magnifi 
cence,  to  find  some  means  of  connecting  the  manifestations 
of  her  own  power,  with  the  memory  of  one  of  the  best,  and 


214  HOMKS    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

truest  of  her  sons  ;  or  that  men  who  look  forward  with  trust. 
And  labor  with  earnest  hearts  in  the  cause  of  their  country, 
should  forget  that  the  surest  pledge  of  the  future,  is  the  full 
and  grateful  recognition  of  the  past. 


41 


Lott 


?  /k  liCK 


tfitoart  (gfcmtt. 


ffp 

'•'•^.-w^ 

I  ' 

^$&£v'js^      '        ^*?r*-' 


.  -*   '.  -  i    !  ? 


•  |i, 
• 

•      .;-.>•• 


EVERETT. 


town  of  Dorchester,  in  which  Mr.  Everett  was  born, 
A  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  Puritan  settlements  in  "Mas 
sachusetts  l>ay.  It  took  its  name  from  Dorchester,  in  Eng 
land,  where  lived  John  "White,  a  Puritan  divine,  -who  has 
sometimes  been  culled  "the  father  of  the  Massachusetts. 
colony"  nnd~"tho  patriarch' of  New  England."  The  mer- 
chanU  who  a.-sociaU'd  for  trade  in  Massachuftotta  l>ay  hi 
Idi'.'J  were  of  old  Dorchester,  and  this  town  proved  in  the 
English  rebellion  to  be  one  of  the  centres  of  opposition  to 


218  HOICKS    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

Charles  the  First.  In  his  valuable  paper  on  the  origin  of 
Massachusetts,  Mr.  Haven  has  shown  how  close  was  the 
connection  always  maintained  between  old  Dorchester  and 
the  infant  colony.  Very  naturally,  the  first  settlers  gave 
thiii  familiar  and  honored  name  to  one  of  their  first  and 
finest  positions. 

At  the  time  of  the  siege  of  Boston  Dorchester  attained 
Bonie  revolutionary  notoriety.  The  batteries  thrown  up  by 
Washington,  which  drove  the  English  ileet  from  the  harbor 
in  1770,  were  established  on  Dorchester  Heights.  These 
hills  are  within  the  present  line  of  the  city  of  Boston. 

We  copy  from  a  line  painting  by  Mr,  II.  Vautin,  a  repre 
sentation  of  the  house  in  Dorchester  in  which  Mr.  Edward 
Everett  was  born.  This  picture  was  painted  a  few  years 
bince,  but  the  house  is  little  changed  in  external  appearance 
since  1704,  the  year  of  Mr.  Everett's  birth.  It  is  now  a 
hundred  years  old  or  more.  It  stands  about  a  mile  from 
the  centre  of  the  village  of  Dorchester,  at  a  point  long 
known  as  the  "Five  Corners."  Here  Mr.  Everett's  father 
lived  from  the  year  1792,  when  he  left  the  charge  of  the 
new  South. Church,  in  Boston,  until  his  death  in  1802. 

We  fear  that  no  remarkable  incidents  can  be  related  of 
the  history  of  this  comfortable  country  residence.  It  is  now 
occupied  by  the  Messrs.  Richardson,  who  have  owned  it  for 
many  years.  After  the  death  of  his  father,  Mr.  Everett's 
mother,  with  her  young  family,  removed  to  Boston,  and  at 
the  public  school  of  Boston  and  at  Exeter  Academy  he  was 
titled  for  Harvard  College.  He  also  attended  in  Boston  a 
'private  school  kept  by  the  late  Hon.  Ezekiel  Webster,  the 
brother  of  Hon.  Daniel  Webster. 


EVKKETT.  Jill) 

ITc  entered  college  in  1807,  at  which  time  he  was  but  a 
tew  months  more  than  thirteen  years  old.  lie  left  college 
in  1811  the  youngest  member  of  his  class,  but  witli  the 
highest  honors  of  the  college.  Hi*  distinguished  brother 
Alexander,  who  graduated  live  years  before,  at  the  age  •>!' 
sixteen,  was  also  the  highest  scholar  in  his  class.  Leaving 
the  college  halls  which  have  been  the  homes  of  so  many 
American  authors,  Mr.  Everett  in  1813  succeeded  his  friend 
Mr.  Buckminster,  the  pastor  of  Brattle-street  Church,  in 
Huston.  His  home  was  then  established  in  the  parsonage 
belonging  to  that  society. 

In  such  a  volume  as  this,  it  is  not  improper  to  pay  that 
this  house,  now  venerable  from  a  half-antiquity,  although 
now  surrounded  by  the  noisiest  business  of  the  city,  was 
appropriately  situated  for  the  purposes  of  a  parsonage  when 
(Jov.  Hancock  presented  it  to  Brattle-street  Church.  The 
business  of  the  town  has  since  swept  all  around  it,  perhaps* 
unfortunately  for  its  occupants;  but,  by  the  will  of '  Gov. 
Hancock  the  parsonage  is  anchored  and  is  likely  to  be,  in 
that  po>ition.  A  house  in  which  Mr.  Buckminster,  Mr. 
Everett,  Dr.  .Palfrey  and  Mr.  Lothrop  have  lived  succes 
sively,  deserves  mention  among  Ihe  homes  of  American 
authors. 

Mr.  Kverett  left  this  residence  when  he  accepted  the 
Kliot  professorship  of  (Jreek  literature  at  Cambridge.  He 
then  spent  some  years  in  foreign  travel.  When  he  accepted 
the  active  duties  of  his  professorship,  he  lived  for  some  time 
in  the  Washington  house  or  Craigie  house,  the  present  resi 
dence  of  Prof.  Longfellow,  which  is  described  in  another 
part -of  this  volume.  He  afterwards  occupied  there  a  house 


220  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    A  U  Til  Olid. 

in  the  pretty  avenue  known  by  students  aa  Professors'  Kow. 
This  house  was  built  by  Prof.  Farrar,  and  it*  now  his  homo. 

Mri  Everett  entered  Congress  in  1824,  and  was  lor  ten 
successive  years  the  representative  of  the  Middlesex  district. 
During  this  time  the  residence  of  his  family,  and  his  own 
while  ho  was  not  occupied  at  Washington,  was  at  tirst  AV in 
ter  Hill,  in  Charlestown,  now  in  Somcmlle, —  a  place  also 
noted  in  the  history  of  the  siego  of  .Boston,  'lie  afterwards 
removed  to  the  more  thickly  nettled  part  of  Charlestown,  in 
Dow-street. 

Mr.  Everett  was  chosen  Governor  of  Massachusetts  in 
1S35.  Ho  was  elected  to  this  post  for  four  KUCCCSMVC  years. 
During  this  time  he  resided  in  Boston,  in  the  house  which 
he  now  occupies,  or  at  Watertown,  in  the  house  well  known 
in  that  vicinity  as  the  home  for  many  years  of  the  late  Dr. 
Marshall  Spring. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1889,  —  in  the  delicately  bal 
anced  politics  of  Massachusetts,  where  then,  as  now,  parties 
were  very  evenly  divided,  —  and  in  a  variety  of  local  ques 
tions  which  it  would  be  hard  to  explain  in  history  or  biog 
raphy,  Mr.  Everett  received  one  vote  too  few,  out  of  more 
than  a  hundred  thousand,  and  Gov.  Morton  was  elected  his 
successor.  There  is  a  good  story  told,  of  which  we  should 
hardly  venture  to  give  the  particulars,  of  his  describing  this 
defeat  the  next  year  to  a  European  Grand  Duke,  —  who  lis 
tened  to.  the  precise  statistics  with  no  little  curiosity.  Grand 
Dukes  have  had  a  chance  since  to  learn  the  value  of  votes 
better  than  they  knew  them  then.  In  the  spring  of  18-10 
Mr.  Everett  went  to  Europe  with  his  family.  He  spent  a 
winter  in  Florence;  —  and  was  engaged  in  a  summer  tour, 


EVERETT.  221 

Avhen  ho  received  his  appointment  as  Minister  to  London 
from  the  administration  of  Gen.  Harrison,  lie  arrived  in 
that  city  at  the  close  of  the  your  1S41,  and  remained  there 
until  he  was  recalled  in  the  spring  of  1845. 

At  tliis  time  the  presidency  of  the  University  at  Cam 
bridge  had  just  been  vacated  by  Mr.  Qutncy'a  resignation. 
The  friends  of  the  University  eagerly  solicited  Mr.  Everett 
to  become  his  successor.  He  accepted  the  invitation  atVer 
some  hesitation,  and  was  formally  inaugurated  on  the  tir.^t 
of  May,  184(>.  His  administration  of  the  University  was 
short,  but  it  is  still  gratefully  remembered  by  those  who 
were  connected  with  it  at  that  time.  It  inspirited  and  in 
some  regards  gave  new  tone  to  the  venerable  institution, — it 
certainly  excited  the  enthusiasm  of  its  friends, —  and  was 
signalized  by  some  important  enlargements  of  its  endow 
ments.  The  Lawrence  Scicntiiic  School  was  endowed  and 
established  during  these  years.  He  was  President,  of  the 
University  but  three  years,  when  the  condition  of  his  health, 
which  was  not  equal  to  the  harassing  requisitions  of  its  thou 
sand  duties  of  detail,  compelled  him  to  retire. 

A  pleasant  essay  might  be  written  by  some  Cambridge 
man,  on  that  old  "  President's  House,"  which  Mr.  Everett 
occupied  while  President  and  for  two  or  three  years  after 
wards.  It  stands  close  on  the  high  road,  exposing  its  ho>pi- 
table  front  to  every  blast  of  dust  from  roads  dusty  to  a  pro 
verb.  The  anxious  boy  waiting  Examination,  or  the  gray- 
haired  Alumnus  revisiting  Alma  Mater,  meet  it  iirst,  as  the 
eager  omnibus-boy,  unconscious  of  romance,  delivers  them 
at  their  destination.  Magnificent  in  its  day,  it  is,  —  though- 
of  old  fashion  and  low  ceiled  rooms,  —  comfortable  now.  Its 


222  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

hospitalities  nover  failed  in  the  presidential  dynasties  which 
can  bo  remembered  ;  and  many  a  graduate  and  many  a 
graduate's  fairer  friends,  recollect  the  brilliancy  of  its  lights 
44f  a  Commencement  evening,  or  as  a  "Class  Day"  celebra 
tion  passed  away;  the  pleasant  littlu  retiring  places  in  its 
narrow  grounds,  and  the  spirited  strains  of  evening  music, 
from  the  performer  hidden  somewhere  on  such  occasions  in 
its  shrubberies.  And  how  faithfully  remembered,  —  more 
distinctly,  perhaps,  than  any  of  its  rooms,-— the  wing  in 
which  was  the  President's  "  oiticial  residence!"  Here  he 
administered  rebuke  or  praise;  and  here  passed  those  criti 
cal  interviews  of  which  the  apocryphal  narrations  imik«j  KO 
large  part  of  the  food  with  which  witty  Sophomore  regales 
the  craving  ears  of  wondering  Freshman. 

For  the  present,  all  these  associations  are  of  the  past. 
Dr.  Sparks  occupies  his  own  house  at  Home  little  distance 
from  the  College  halls,  and  the  old  President's  home  is  a 
lodging-House  and  board  ing-house  for  students. 

It  was  built  in  17iiO-'27..  President  Wadsworth, — whose 
name  his  descendant  Prof.  Longfellow  bears,  —  was  its  first 
occupant.  Ilolyoke,  Locke,  and  Langdon, —  in  the  dynasty 
of  the  last  of  whom  the  College  buildings  were  made  bar 
racks  for  the  Revolutionary  troops,  whose  successors,  the  stu 
dent.'-,  were  hardly  less  revolutionary  ;  for  he  retired  from 
uflice  when  a  body  of  impudent  boys  desired  him  to  <1«> 
soj-r— Willard,  —  who  planted  the  large  trees  around  the 
house,  and  who  is  remembered  by  living  students,  —  Dr. 
Webber, '  I)r,  Kirklaud,  Mr.  Quincy  and  Mr.  Everett  have 
occupied  it  in  succession.  Here  is  our  excuse  for  dwelling 
on  its  history  among  the  Homes  of  American  Authors. 


i         >        N  .  , ...  ,, . 


EVERETT.  223 

Mr,  Everett  ia  again  residing  in  his  own  house  in  Sum 
mer-street,  in  Boston.  Many  years  since,  this  house  was  oe- 
eupied  by  lion.  Daniel  Webster.  Mr.  Everett  has  recently 
added  to  it  the  beautiful  library  of  which  our  en<Tiivim' 

*  OP 

represents  one  view.  The  bookcases,  whielt-  almost  wholly 
.surround  the  room,  are  of  carved  oak.  iS'o  glass  doors  hin 
der  the  student.  A  single  cabinet  protects  manuscripts  and- 
other  private  documents.  It  is  lighted  from  above,  and 
above  the  books  there  is  therefore  an  excellent  light  for 
some  line  pictures.  Among  those  which  hang  in  the  roniu 
are  portraits  of  lion.  I*.  0.  Brooks;  of  Webster  by  Hcaly 
and  by  Stuart;  of  Lord  Brougham;  of  the  Duke,  of  Welling 
ton  and  Sir  'Robert.  Peel;  of  Burke,  and  of  John  Quincy 
Adams.  There  are  some  curious  antiquities  and  memorials 
of  Mr.  Everett's  travels  in  the  room;  and  between  the  door- 
is  stretched,  couchant,  a  beautiful  marble  hound,  by  Horatio 
Greenough,  —  the  quiet  guardian  of  the  entrance. 


The  public  career  of  Edward  Everett,  while  it  evidences" 
the  thoroughness  of  his  culture  and  the  versatility  of  his 
gifts,  affords  a  remarkable  illustration  of  the  demands  of  an 
enlightened  republic  upon  her  intellectual  citizens.'  Instead 
of  proposing  to  himself  a  vocation  accordant  with  his  tastes, 
or  an  aim  suggested  by  his  peculiar  ambition,  the  nobly  en 
dowed  son  of  a  free  and  progressive  commonwealth,  is  led 
by  the  force  of  circumstances  and  the  instinct  of  patriotism 
to  dedicate  his  powers  and  acquisitions  to  every  form  of 
mental  action  and  public  service.  The  moment  his  ability 
is  known  it  is  appropriated  in  whatever  sphere  the  exigencies 
of  the  time  and  community  require.  The  utility  of  his  know- 


224  HOMKti    OF    AMKHICAN    AUTHOUS, 

ledge,  the  weight  of  hit*  character,  his  facility  in  affairs  and 
grace  of  expression  are  claimed  to  vindicate,  sustain  or  adorn 
the  interests  of  his  native  land  ;  and,  instead  of  a  life  devo 
tion  to  individual  pursuits,  he  is  consecrated  to  otlices  of 
great  immediate  value,  with  little  or  no  regard  to  the  claims 
of  his  personal  genius.  It  is  seldom  indeed  that  the  need* 
fu!  training,  and  the  earnest,  will  combine  in  any  one  man 
so  favorably  as  to  induce  such  a  degree  of  excellence  in 
these  varied  functions,  as  to  reflect  permanent  honor  on  the 
individual.  Such  however  is  the  case  with  Kdwurd.  Kvorett. 
lie  has  the  rare  merit  of  having  proved  himself  fully -equal 
to  the  numerous  and  diverse  relations  he  has  fulfilled.  Other 
men  of  genius  among  us  may  be  represented  by  the  scene 
their  writings  have  rendered  famous  ;  his  career  is  more 
justly  indicated  by  a  view  of  his  birthplace,  which  at  once- 
suggests  a  life  of  mental  activity  and  patriotic  devotion,  and 
of  the  interior  of  the  library  where  tho  bent  hours  of  an 
honored  maturity  are  passed,  eloquent  of  that  wealth  of 
attainment  and  literary  culture,  which  has  been  the  source 
both  of  his  extensive  usefulness  and  wide  renown.  His 
birthplace  is  one  of  the  memorable  villages  near  ]>oston, 
where  may  yet  be  seen  the  truces  of  dismantled  fortifica 
tions,  landmarks  of  the  struggle  for  independence  which 
nerved  and  elevated  his  ancestry,  and  prepared  the  way 
for  those  peaceful  but  hurdly-won  triumphs  of  the  scholar, 
in  which  he  has  HO  largely  shared.  The  son  of  a  clergyman, 
his  boyhood  was  familiar  with  the  wholesome  discipline  and 
intellectual  tone  of  an  educated  New  England  family ;  and 
at  tho  early  age  of  thirteen  he  entered  College,  and  in  1S11 
graduated  with  every  sign  of  the  highest  promise.  At  that 


KVERETT. 

period,  as  before  ami  subsequently,  a  peculiar  local  interest 
attached  to  the  theological  profession  in  Boston.  An  enthu 
siasm  for  eloquent  and  refined  preaching  obtained  union*: 
the  cultivated  'inhabitants..  The  Puritan  morals  and  the 
respect  for  mental  superiority  which  characterizes  that  cum-' 
inunity,  together  with  the  prevalence-  of  a  higher  degree  of 
literary  ta-te,  caused  pulpit  eloquence  to  be  singularly  ap: 
preciuted.  The  list  of  Boston  divines  comprised  the  iuo*f 
honored  names,  and  their  social  intluence  and  position  were 
remarkable.  It  is  therefore  not  surprising  that  the  friends 
of  a -new  candidate  for  intellectual  fame  should  urge  him 
to  adopt  the  ministerial  vocation.  In  the  case,  of  Everett, 
however,  a  special  motive  for  such  a  course  existed.  At 
the  -period  when  his  talents  and  scholaivhip  became  known 
beyond  the  University,  a  voice  upon  whose  faintest  accent 
the  most  intelligent  congregation  of  Boston  had  hung  with 
breathless  delight,  was  hushed  for  ever.  Buckminstcr  had 
closed  a  brief  and  beautiful  life  amid  the  tears  of  devoted 
parishioners;  and  the  vacuum  thus  created,  Everett,  also 
young,  gifted  and  without  reproach,  was  urged  to  fill. 
Thus  at  the  very  outset  were  his  abilities  severely  tested  ;" 
and  it  is  proof  enough  of  his  superior  mind,  that  so  hazard 
ous  an  experiment  succeeded. 

During  the  iirst  year  of  his  youthful  ministry,  and  while 
enlisting  the  sympathies  of  a  large  and  critical  audience  by 
his  sermons,  he  wrote  and  published  an  able  work  on  the 
intrinsic  scriptural  evidences  of  Christianity.  It  was,  how 
ever,  obvious  to  the  disinterested  admirers  of  Everett  that 
Ins  true  field  of  action  lay  in  the  domain  of  general  litera 
ture;  and  that  in' promoting  the  interests  of  academic  edu- 
15 


220  HOMES    OF    AM  Ell  1C  AN    AUTlIOltS. 

cation,  his  tasto  and  lovo  of  knowledge  would  iiud  more 
ample  results  than  111  any  exclusive  pursuit.  Accordingly, 
iu  1815,  when  he  attained  his  majority,  he  was  elected  Pro 
fessor  of  the  Greek  language  and  literature  in  Harvard  Uni 
versity,  with  leave  of  absence  to  prosecute  his  studies  and 
recruit  his.  health  in  Europe.  He  reached  Liverpool  at  tho 
critical  moment  when  the  intelligence  of  .Napoleon's  lliglit 
from  Kll»a  had  thrown  the  whole  continent  into  agitation  ; 
and,  therefore,,  lingered  in  England  until  the  battle  of 
Waterloo,  Thence  he  proceeded  to  Gottingen,  and  having 
acquired  the  German  language  and  made  a  tour  of  inquiry 
amid  the  seats  of  learning  in  that  country,  established  him 
self,  for  a  time,  at  Paris;  and  subsequently  visited  Scotland, 
Wales,  dilferent  parts  of  France,  Switzerland  and  Italy,  and 
passed  the  winter  of  1^18  at  Koine.  In  the  spring  of  the 
following  year  he  made  the  tour  of  Greece,  thence  went  to 
Constantinople,  and  returned  to  Paris  and  London  by  the 
way  of  Vienna.  On  his  arrival  in  the  United  States,  after 
four  and  a  half  years  of  foreign  travel  and  study,  he  com 
menced  his  duties  as  Greek  professor  —  illustrating  tho 
language,  history  and  antiquities,  by  an  able  and  interest 
ing  course  of  lectures.  As  a  contributor  to  the  .North 
American  Review,  which  for  some  years  was  tinder  his 
editorship,  he  became  the  most  popular  and  effective  expo 
nent  of  American  talent  and  culture  which  had  appeared 
in  the  form  of  periodical  literature.  For  ten  years  aftei 
relinquishing  this  genial  and  most  useful  department  of 
labor,  Mr.  Everett  was  a  member  of  the  national  Houso 
of  Representatives,  In  lvS,"»r>  he  was  elected  Governor  of 
Massachusetts,  and  held  the  otUee  tour  successive  years.  In 


EVEHKTT.  227 

1841  ho  was  appointed  Minister  to  England;  and,  whoa  a 
change  of  administration  induced  his  return  home  in'1840, 
ho  wan  chosen-  President  of  Harvard  'College.  It  is  hut  & 
few  years  since  he  resigned  that  eminent  office  and  took  up 
his  residence  in  Boston,  where  his  time  is  divided  between 
this  literary  avocations  so  accordant  with  his  taste,  and  the 
pleasures  of  a  cultivated  society. 

In  the  career  thus  outlined,  we  perceive  all  the  elements 
desirahlo  to  give  scope  and  inspiration  to  his  rare  gifts  and 
systematic  application.  Kach  sphere  in  which  ho  exerted 
his  powers  bore  the  fruits  of  genius,  learning,  and  conscien 
tious  industry.  Circumstances,  too,  were  singularly  propi 
tious.  AVith  the  solid  though  limited  basis  of  New  England, 
morality  and  scholarship,  and  the  impulse  derived  from  ti 
literary  social  atmosphere,  he  entered  upon  the  broad  Held 
of  German  culture,  prepared  to  adopt  its  best  and  evade 
its  baneful  agencies.  On  his  first  visit  to  Paris,  (he  com 
panionship  of  Corny,  who  had  so  eminently  promoted  the 
Greek  cause  with  his  pen,  put  Mr.  Everett  at  once  upon  a 
track  of  inquiry  and  feeling,  which  he  afterwards  nobly  vin 
dicated.  In  Koine  he  was  intimate  with  Caiujvn,  and  there 
studied  ancient  by  the  light  of  modern  art.  To  AH  Pacha 

he  carried    letters   from    Lord    ISyron  ;    and 'no  American 

» 

scholar  ever  visited  that  classic  region  better  prepared  to 
realize  its  associations.  The  eifect  of  these  manifold  adv:m- 
tai^es  soon  appeared.  As  a  professor,  while  he  unfolded  the 
spirit  of  antiquity,  he  also  prepared  the  most  desirable  mam- 
mils' for  the  students;  and  advocated  the  cause  of  modern 
Greece,  in  the  pages  of  his  Review,  with  a  knowledge  of  tin* 
subject,  and  an  enthusiasm  tor  liberty  which  won  the  unlet- 


228  HOMKS    OP    AMERICAN    AUTHOU8. 

tered   while  it  fascinated   the   learned.     In  Congress,  ho 
united   the  most  graceful   oratory  with  a  methodical  and 
unwearied  attention  to.  the  details  of  legislative  business. 
Aa  a  foreign  minister,  the  dignity  and  tact  as  well  as  varied   ' 
acquisition  he  carried  into  the  social  circle,  and  his  relnark- 
ahle  gift  as  an  occasional  speaker,  gained  fur  him  universal 
respect  and  for  his  country  peculiar  honor.     As  a  critic,  the 
good-natured  yet  keen  rebukes  he  administered  to  tho  super 
ficial  commentators  on  our  habits  and  institutions,  delighted 
thousands  of  readers  and  silenced  the  flippant  horde  of  trav 
ellers  with  a  torrent  of  graceful  irony,  biipported  by  facts 
and  arguments.     As  a  man  of  letters,  in  every  branch  of 
public  service  and  in  society  and  private  life,  Mr.  Everett 
has  combined  the  useful  with  the  ornamental,  with  a  tact,  a 
universality  and  a  faithfulness  almost  unprecedented.     At 
Windsor  Castle  we  find  him  fluently  conversing  with  each 
member  of  the  diplomatic  corps  in  their  vernacular  tongue; 
in  Florence,  addressing  the  Scientific  Congress  with  charac 
teristic  grace  and  wisdom;  in  London,  entertaining  the  most 
gifted  and  wisely  chosen  party  of  artists,  authors  and  men 
of  rank  or  state,  in  a  manner  which  elicits  their  best  social 
sentiments ;  at  hom-e,  in  the  professor's  chair,  in  the-  popular 
assembly,  in  the  lyceum-hall,  or  to  celebrate  an  historical 
occasion,  —  giving  expression  to  high  sentiment  or  memora- 
able  fact  with  the  finished  style  and  thrilling  emphasis  of 
the  accomplished  orator ;  and,  in  the  intervals  of  these  em 
ployments,  we  find  him  sometimes  weaving  into  beautiful 
verso  the  impressions  derived  from  his  observation  or -read' 
ing,  as  witness  the  "  Dirge  of  Alaric"  and  u  Santa  Croce." 
It  has  been  feaid  that  Mr.  Everett  owes  it  to  himself  and 


EVEUETT.  229 

his  country  to  bequeath  a  memorial  of  his  great  acquisitions 
and  brilliant  endowments,  more  complete  and  individual 
than  any  which  has  yet  appeared;  and  it  has  also  been  con 
fidently  asserted  that  a  portion  of  his  leisure  is  dedicated 
to  such  an  object.  The  best  actual  record  of  his  industry 
and  genius,  however,  exists  in  the  volumes  of  "Orations  and 
Speeches  "  recently  collected  ;  and  we  trust  the  public  ex 
pectation  that  his  critical  and  historical  essays  are  to  be 
thus  gathered  up,  revised  and  published,  under  his  own 
eye,  will  not  be  disappointed.  As  an  orator,  however,  he 
is  chiefly  recognized.. 

"If  Webster  is  the  Michael  Angelo  of  American  ora 
tory,  Everett  is  the  Raphael.  In  the  formers  definition  of 
eloquence,  he  recognizes  its  latent  existence  in  the  occasion 
as  well  as  in  the  man,  and  in  the  subject;  his  own  oratory 
is  remarkable  for  grasping  the  bold  and  essential,  for  devel 
oping,  as  it  were,  the  anatomical  basis  —  the  very  sinews  and 
nerves  of  his  subject;  while  Everett  instinctively  catches 
'and  unfolds  the  grace  of  the  occasion,  whatever  it  be;  in 
his  mind  the  sense  of  beauty  is  vivid,  and  nothing  is  more 
surprising  in  his  oratory,  than  the  ease  and  facility  with 
which  he  seizes  upon  the  redeeming  associations  of  every 
topic,  however  far  removed  it  may  be  from  the  legitimate 
domain  of  taste  or  scholarship.  In  addressing  a  Mercantile 
Library  Association,  he  places  Commerce  in  so  noble  and 
captivating  a  light  that  the  "  weary  honors  of  successful 
ambition,"  won  by  studious  toil,  grow  dim  in  comparison  to 
the  wide  relations,  social  influence,  and  princely  munificence 
of  the  great  merchant.  lie  advocates  the  privileges,  and 
describes -the  progress  of  Science,  and  the  imagination  ex- 


280  HOMES    OF    AMEUICAN    AUTIIOltS, 

panda  in  delightful  visions  of  the  ameliorating  destinies  of 
tlu-  world,  and  tho  infinite  possibilities  that  crowd  the  path 
of  undiscovered  truth,  lie  sots  before  an  Association  of  Me 
chanics  the  relation  of  their  pursuits  to  the  welfare  of  man, 
and  tho  importance  of  knowledge  to  tho  artisan,  and  their 
vocation  rises  at  once  to  the  highest  dignity  and  promise, 
lie  enforces  the  natural  charms  and  permanent  utility  of 
agriculture,  and  the  Farmer's  lot  seems  the  most,  desirable 
of  human  occupations.  The  variety  of  occasions  to  which 
ho  has  thus  ably  administered  is  the  best  proof  of  his  fertile 
resources  and  adaptive  power.  He  has  successfully  plead 
for  Greece  and  Africa,  for  the  prisoner  and  the  intemperate, 
for  art  and  literature,  for  popular  and  college  education,  for 
railroads  and  the  militia,  for  the  completion  of  the  monu 
ment  on  Hunker  Jlill,  and  the  restoration  of  York  Minster, 
for  manufactures,  trade,  the  distribution  of  the  Bible,  and 
the  cause  of  Ireland  ;  and 

'"From  the  oldies  of  oblivion1*  btrcam, 

I'roj.iuou-*  snatched  ouch  memorable  theme.'    ' 

Equally  impressive  and  graceful,  while  tho  intellectual 
crowd,  at  a  New  England  academic  festival,  hang  upon 
his  familiar  accents,  and  when  responding  to  the  welcome 
of  a  foreign  city ;  and,  crowned  with  the  graces  of  true  ora 
tory,  his  eloquence  is  as  unfaltering  and  appropriate  when 
uttered  to  a  royal  society  as  to  a  delegation  of  Sacs  and 
Foxes,  and  as  readily  attunes  itself  to  the  fading  memory 
of  the  illiterate  old  soldier,  as  to  the  quick  sympathies  of  the 
youthful  scholar."  * 

Charu?t«mtica  of  Literature." 


, 
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(Emerson. 


•ilSVc^f  -A  .V-*T'*  , 

1     •"     "     § 

J: 

r-/f  •:,  V»       \'&i'<  '  v        1\H 

P        i 

Sfi          •  !'•   '';•,_  fcii  ::s? 


'•'• 

•*&)».,        i*- 


EMERSON. 


rnilE  village  of  Concord,  Massachusetts,  lies  an  hour's  rule 
JL  from  Boston,  upon  the  great  Northern  Railway.  It  i» 
one  of  those  quiet  New  England  towns,  \yhose  few  white 
houses,  grouped  upon  the  plain,  make  but  a  slight  impres 
sion  upon  the  mind  of  the  busy  traveller,  hurrying  to  or 
from  the  city.  As  the- conductor  shouts  "Concord!"  tho 
busy  traveller  has  scarcely  time  to  recall  "Concord,  Lexing 
ton  and  Bunker  Hill,"  be-fore  the  town  has  vanished  and  he 
is  darting  through  woods  and  fields  as  .solitary  as  those  he 


234  HOMES    OFAMERIOAN    AUTHORS. 

has  just  left  in  New -Hampshire.  Yet  as  it  vanished,  ho  may 
chance  to  seo  two  or  three  spires,  and  as  they  rush  behind 
the  trees  his  eyes  fall  upon  a  gleaming  bheet  of  water.  It  is 
Walden  Pond,  —  or.lYiildon  "Water,  ad  Orphic  Alcott  used 
to  call  it,  —  whose  virgin  seclusion  wad  a  just  image  of  that 
of  the  little  village,  until  one  afternoon,  some  half  dozen  or 
more  years  since,  a  shriek  sharper  than  any  that  had  rung 
from  Walden  woods  since  the  lust  war-whoop  of  the  last  In 
dians  of  Muskotaquidj  announced  to  astonished  Concord, 
drowsing  in  the  river  meadows,  that  the  nineteenth  century 
hud  overtaken  it.  Yet  long  before  the  material  force  of  the 
age  bound  the  town  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  the  spiritual " 
force  of  a  single  mind  in  it  hud  attracted  attention  to  it, 
and  made  its  lonely  plains  as  dear  to  many  widely  scat 
tered  minds  as  the  groves  of  the  academy  or  the  vineyards 
of  Yaucluse. 

Except  in  causing  the  erection  of  the  Kuilwuy  build 
ings  iind  several  dwellings  near  it,  steuni  bus  not  much 
changed  Concord.  It  is  yet  one  of  the  quiet  country  towns 
whose  eh  arm  is  incredible  to  all  but  those  who  by  loving  it 
have  found  it  worthy  of  love.  The  shire-town  of  the  great 
agricultural  county  of  Middlesex,  it  is  not  disturbed  by  the 
feverish  throb  of  factories,  nor  by  any  roar  of  inexorable  toil 
but  the  few  puffs  of  the  locomotive.  One  day,  during  the 
autumn,  it  is  thronged  with  the  neighboring  farmers,  who 
hold  their  high  festival  —  the  annual  cattle-show — there. 
But  the  calm  tenor  of  Concord  life  is  not  varied  even  on 
that  day,  by  any  thing  more  exciting  than  fat  oxen,  and  the 
cud-chewing  eloquence  of  the  agricultural  dinner.  The  pop 
ulation  of  the  region  is  composed  of  sturdy,  sterling  men, 


K  M  E  It  S  0  N  .  .  235 

worthy  representatives  of  the  ancestors  who  sowed  along  the 
Concord  shore*,  with  their  seed-corn  and  rye,  the  germs  of  a 
prodigious  national  greatness.  At  intervals  every  day  the 
rattle,  roar  and  whistle  of  the  swift  shuttle  darting  to  and 
from  the  metropolitan  heart  of  New  England,  weaving  pros 
perity  upon  tlu-  land,  remind  those  farmers  in  their  silent 
fields,  that  the  great  world  yet  wags 'and  wrestles.  And  tln'j 
farmer-boy  sweeping  with  Hashing  scythe  through  the  river 
meadows,  whose  coarse  grass  glitters,  apt  for  mowing,  in  the 
early  June  morning,  pauses  as  the  whistle  dies  into  the  dis 
tance,  and  wiping  his  brow  and  whetting  his  Made  anew, 
(questions  the  country-smitten  citizen,  the  amateur  Corydon 
struggling  with  imperfect  stroke  behind,  him,  of  the  mystic- 
romance  of  city  life. 

The  sluggish  repose  of. the  little  river  images  the  farmer- 
boy's  life,  lie  bullies  hi.->  oxen,  and  trembles  at  the  locomo 
tives  Ills  wonder  and  fancy  stretch  toward  the  great  world 
beyond  the  barn-yard  and  the  village  church,  as  the  torpid 
stream  tends  toward  the  ocean.  The  river,  in  fact,  seems 
the  thread  upon  which  all  the  beads  of  that  rustic-  life  are 
strung,  —  the  clue  to  its  traiujuil  character.  If  it  were  an 
impetuous  stream,  dashing  along  as  if  it  claimed  and  rcijuir- 
ed  the  career  to  which  every  American  river  is  entitled, T- 
a  career  it  would  have.  Wheels,  factories,  shops,  traders, 
factory-girls,  boards  of  directors,  dreary  white  lines  of  board- 
ing-house,  all  the  signs  that  indicate  the  spirit  of  the  age^and 
of  the  American  age,  would  ari>e  upon  its  margin.  Some 
shaven  magician  from  State-street  would  run  up  by  rail,  anil, 
from  proposals,  maps,  schedules  of  stock,  eVc.,  educe  a  spa- 
eions  factory  as  easily  as  Aladdin's  palace  arose  from  iiuth- 


236  HOMES    OF    AM  Ell  1C  AN     AUTHORS. 

•ing.  Instead  of  a  dreaming,  pastoral  poet  of  a  village,  Con 
cord  would  be  a  rushing,  whirling,  hustling  manufacturer  of 
a  town,  like  its  thrifty  neighbor  Lowell.  Many  a  line  equip 
age,  Hashing  along  city  way 8, — many  an  EUzabethan-Qothic- 
' Grecian  rural  retreat,  in  which  State-street-  woos  Pan  and 
grows  Arcadian  in  summer,  would  be  reduced,  in  the  last 
analysis,  to  the  Concord  mills.  Yet  if  these  broad  river 
meadows  grew  factories  instuad  of  corn,  they  might  perhaps 
'lack  another  harvest,  of  which  the  poet's  thought  in  the 
sickle. 

"One  linrvi'rtt  from  your  fUM 

ll< 'UK- \\unl  brought  Id'1  oxcii  >-ti<>ir.', 
Anot IKT  crop  your  um-4  yit-Kl, 

\\liirli   1   L'atli«T  ill  U  KOIIg," 

sings  Emerson,  and  again,  as  the 'afternoon  light  strikes  pen 
sive  across  his' memory,  as  over  the  iields  below  him, — 

44  Knows  liu  who  till*  (hia  lonely  tu  1.1, 

To  reap  iU  »ranty  corn, 
Wlwt  in\  -lit-  crops  liia  ii'Trs  vii  1.1, 
At  iui.lui_'lil  ami  ut  in. .fii  t  " 

Tho  Concord  river,  upt»n  whose  winding  shores  the  town 
has  scattered  its  few  houses,  as  if,  loitering  over  the  plain 
Homo  fervent  day,  it  had  fallen  asleep  obedient  to  the  slum 
berous  spell,  and  had  not  since  awakened,  is  a  languid,  shal 
low  stream,  that  loiters  through  broad  meadows,  which  fringe 
it  with  rushes  and  long  grasses.  Its  sluggish  current  scarcely 
moves  the  autumn  leaves  showered  upon  it  by  a  few  maples 
•that  lean  over  the  Assabeth  —  as  one  of  its  branches  is  named. 


EMERSON.  237 

Yellow  lily-buds  and  leathery  lily-pads  tesselato  its  surface, 
and  the  white  water-lilies, —  pale,  proud  Ladies  of  Shalott, — 
bare  their  virgin  breasts  to  the  sun  in  the  seclusion  of  its  dis 
tant  reaches.  Clustering  vines  of  wild  grape  hang  its  wood 
ed  shores  with  a  tapestry  of  the  South  and  the  Jlhine."  The 
pickerel-weed  marks  with  blue  spikes  of  tlowers  the  points 
where  small  tributary  brooks  llow  in,  and  along  the  dusky 
windings  of  those  brooks,  cardinal-flowers  with  a  scarlet 
splendor  paint  the  Tropics  upon  New  England  green.  All 
summer  long,  from  founts  unknown,  in  the  upper  counties, 
from  some  anonymous  pond  or  wooded  hillside  moist  wiiji 
springs,  bteals  the  gentle  river  through  the  plain,  spread  ing 
at  one  point  above  the  town  into  a  little  lake,  called  by  the 
tanners  "  FairhavcU  Hay,"  as  if  all  its  ICSMT  minus  must 
share  the  sunny  significance  of  Concord.  Then,  shrinking 
again,  alarmed  at  ils  own  boldness,  it  dreams  on  toward  thr 
Merrimac  and  the  sea. 

The  absence  of  factories  has  already  implied  its  shallow- 
ness  and  slowness.  In  truth  it  is  a  very  slow  river,  belong 
ing  much  more  to  the  Indian  than  to  the  Yankee;  fc«>  much 
so,  indeed,  that  until  within  a  very  few  years  there  was  an 
annual  visit  to  its  shores  from  a  few  sad  heirs  of  its  old  mas 
ters,  who  pitched  a  group  of  tents  in  the  meadows  and  wove 
their  tidy  baskets  and  strung  their  beads  in  unsmiling  silence. 
It  was  the  same  thing  that  I  saw  in  Jerusalem  among  the 
«le\ys.  Every  Friday  they  repair  to  the  remains  of  the  old 
Temple  wall,  and  pray  and  wail,  kneeling  upon  the  pave 
ment  and  kissing  the  stones.  But  that  passionate  oriental 
regret  was  not  more  impressive  than  this  silent  homage  of  u 
waning  race,  who,  as  they  beheld  the  unchanged  river,  knew  • 


288  HOMES    OF    AM  Kit  1C  AN     All  IK)  US. 

that,  unlike  it,  the  last  drops  of  their  existence  were  gradually 
flowing  away,  and  that  lor  their  tribes  there  shall  be  no  in 
gathering. 

So  shallow  is  the  stream  that  the  amateur  Corydons  who 
embark  at  morning  to  explore  its  remoter  shores,  will,  not 
infrequently  in  midsummer,  iind  their  boat  as  suddenly  tran 
quil  and  motionless  as  the  river,  having  placidly  grounded 
upon  its  oozy  bottom.  Or,  returning  at  evening,  they  mav 
lean  over  the  edge  as  they  lie  at  length  in  the  boat,  and  float 
with  the  almost  imperceptible  current,  brushing  the  tips  of 
the  long  water-grass  and  reeds  below  them  in  the  stream— - 
a  river  jungle,  in  which  lurk  pickerel  and  trout  a  —  with  the 
Mentation  of  a  bird  drifting  upon  soft  evening  air  over  the 
treetops.  No  available  or  profitable  craft  navigate  these 
waters,  and  animated  gentlemen  from  the  city  who  run  up 
for  "  a  mouthful  of  fresh  air,"  cannot  possibly  detect  the 
final  cause  of  such  a  river.  Vet  the  dreaming  idler  has  a 
place  on  maps  and  a  name  in  history. 

Near  the  town  it  is  crossed  by  three  or  four  bridges. 
One  is  a  massive  structure  to  help  the  railroad  over.  The 
htern,  strong  pile  readily  betrays  that  it  is  part  of  g<»>d,  solid 
stock,  owned  in  the  right  quarter.  Close-  by  it  is  a  little 
arched  utonc  bridge,  auxiliary  to  a  great  road  leading  to 
Bomo  vague  region  of  the  world  called  Acton  upon  guide- 
posts  and  on  maps.  Just  beyond  these  bridges  the  river 
bends  and  forgets  the  railroad,  but  is  grateful  to  the  graceful 
arch  of  the  little  stone  bridge  for  making  its  curve  more  pic 
turesque,  and,  as  it  muses  toward  the  Old  Manse,  listlosly 
brushing  the  lilies,  it.  wonders  if  Kllery  Channing,  who  lives 
beyond,  npon-a  hillside  sloping  to  the  shore,  wrote  his  poem 


EME11SON.  230 

uf  The  Bridge  to  that  particular  one.  There  are  two  or  thrue 
wooden  bridges  also,  always  combining  well  with  the  land 
scape,  always  making  and  suggesting  pictures. 

The  Concord,  as  1  said,  has  a  name  in  history.  }i  car  .one 
of  the  wooden  bridges  yon  turn  aside  from  the  main  road, 
eloMj  by  the  "Old  "Manse,"  —  -  whose  musses  of  mystic  hue 
were  gathered  by  Ifawthorne,  who  lived  there  for  threv 
years,  —  and  a  few  steps  bring  you  to  the  river,  and  to  a 
small  monument  upon  its  brink.  It  is  a  narrow,  grassy 
\vay  ;  not  a  field  nor  a  meadow,  but  of  that  shape  and  char 
acter  which  would  perplex  the  animated  stranger  from  the 
city,  who  would  see,  also,  its  nnlitness  for  a  building-tot: 
The  narrow,  grassy  way  is  the  old  road,  which  in  the  month 
of  April,  ITTo,  led  to  a  bridge  that  crossed  the  stream  at  thi- 
f-pot.  And  upon  the  river's  margin,  upon  the  bridge  ai:d 
the  shore  beyond,  took  place  the  .>harp  htruggle  between  the 
.Middlesex  fanners  and  the  ccurlct  British  soldiers,  known  uh 
tradition  as  "Concord  light."  The  small  monument  record* 
the  day  and  the  event.  When  it  was  erected,  Kmerson  wrok? 
the  followin  hmn  for  the  ceremon; 


A  run,  JO, 

U  v  the  rude  l.i  id  /«•  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  Aon!'*  brei-zo  unfurled, 
-  unco  the  ut.li.itll.'.l   fanii.-rs  e>tou«lt 
An«l  Hreil  the  s«hot  licanl  round  the  \\«>iM 


u-     i«f     t»ll^  hlH'O     t) 

Alike  the  oomiiUM'or  »il«*nt  >!<••  j>i  ; 
And  Time  tin  ruined  bridge  hua 

Down  the  dark  .Dttrcftin  tlmt  r<.  \\vai-d  .rv«-]  v 


240  HOMES    OF    AIIEUICAN    AUTIIOU3 

"On  tU'u  greeu  l.uuk,  l»y  this  sort  »treum, 

We  see  to-day  a  votive  atone,   », 
That  memory  muy  their  deed  redeem, 
When,  like  our  sirea,  our  BOIIS  ure  gone. 

'•  Sj.ii  it  that  niaiK-  tlu-.-f  heroes  dare 

To  die,  or  leave  tlu'ir  ehildreu  free, 
Hid  Time  and  Nature  gently  r-jmiv 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  Thee." 


Close  under  the  rough  .stone  wall  at  the 'left,  which  separates 
it  from  the  little  grassy  orchard  of  the  Manse,  is  a  small 
m<Mind  of  turf  and  a  broken  stone.  Urave  and  headstone 
shrink  from  sight  amid  the  grass  and  under  the  wall,  hut 
they  mark  the  earthly  bed  of  the  first  victims  of  that  lirst 
light.  A  few  large  trees  overhang  tire  ground,  which  Haw 
thorne  thinks  have  been  planted  Mnce  that  day,  ami  he 
say*  that  in  the  river  he  has  seen  mossy  timbers  of  the  old 
bridge,  and  on  the  farther  bank,  half-hidden,  the  crumbling 
stone  abutments  that  supported  it.  In  an  old  .house  upon 
the  mainroad,  nearly  opposite  the  entrance 'to  this  grassy 
way,  F  knew  a  hale  old  woman  who  well  remembered  the 
gay  advance  of  the  Hashing  soldiers,  the  terrible  ring  and 
4«raek  of  firearms,  and  the  panic-stricken  retreat  of  the  regu 
lars,  blackened  and  bloody.  Hut  the  placid  river  has  long 
since  overborne  it  all.  The  alarm,  the  struggle,  the  retreat, 
are  swallowed  up  in  its  supreme  tranquillity.  The  summers 
of  more  than  seventy  years  have  obliterated  every  trace  of 
ihe  road  with  thick  grass,  which  seeks  to  bury  the  graves, 
as  earth  buried  the  victims.  Let  the  sweet  ministry  of 
Summer  avail.  Let  its  mild  iteration  even  sap  the  nmnu- 


EMERSON.  241 

incut  and  conceal  its  atones  aa  it  hides  the  abutment  in  foli 
age  ;  for,  fitill  on  the  sunny  slopes,  white  with  the  May  'blos 
soming  of  apple-orchards,  and  in  the  broad  fields,  golden  to 
the  marge  of  the  river,  ami  tilled  in  security  and  peace, 
survives  the  imperishable  remembrance  of  that  day  and  its 
results. 

The  river  is  thus  the  main  feature  of  the  Concord  land 
scape.  It  is  surrounded  by  a  wide  plain,  from  which  rise 
only  three  or  four  lo\v  hills.  One  is  a  wooded  dill'  over 
Faii'haven  Bay,  a  mile  from  the  town  ;  one  separates-  the 
main  river  froni  the  Assabeth  ;  and  just  Iteyond  the  battle 
ground  one  rises,  rich  with  orchards,  to  a  fine  wood  which 
<-rowns  it.  The  river  meadows  blend  with  broad,  lonely 
tields.  A  wide  .horizon,  like  that  of  the  prairie  or  the  &t-a> 
is  the  grand  charm  of  Concord.  At  night  the  stars  are  secit 
from  the  roads  crossing  the  plain,  as  from  a  ship. at  sea. 
The  landscape  would  be  called  tame  by  those  who  think  n«.» 
scenery  grand  but  that  of  mountains  or  the  sea-coast.  But 
the  wide  solitude  of  that,  region  is  not  so  accounted  by  tho^e 
who  live  there.  To  them  it  is  rich  and  suggestive,  as  Km- 
erson  shows,  by  saying  in  the  essay  upon  u  Nature,"  *•  M\ 
house  .Clauds  in  low  land,  with  limited  outlook,  and  on  the 
skirt  of  the  village.  But  1  g<>  with  my  friend  to  the  shore 
of  our  little  river,  and  with  one  stroke  of  the  paddle  I  leave 
the  village  politics  and  personalities,  yes,  and  the  world  of 
villages  and  personalities  behind,  and  pass  into  a  delicate, 
realm  of  sunset  aird  moonlight,  too  bright  almost  for  spotted 
man  to  enter  without  novitiate  and  probation.  AVe  pene 
trate  bodily  this  incredible  beauty;  we  dip  our  hands  in 
this  painted  element ;  our  eyes  urn  bathed  in  these  lights 
1C 


242  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

and  forms.  A  holiday,  a  villesgiatura,  a  royal  revel,  the 
proudest,  most  heart-rejoicing  festival  that  valor  and  beauty, 
power  and  taste  ever  decked  and  enjoyed,  establishes  itself 
upon  tho  instant."  And  again,  as  indicating  where  the  true 
charm  of  scenery  lies,  —  "In  every  landscape  the  point  of 
astonishment  is  the  meeting  of  the  sky  and  the  earth,  and 
that  is  seen  from  the  lirst  hillock,  as  well  as  from  the  top  of 
the  Alleghanies.  The  stars  stoop  down  over  the  brownest, 
homeliest  common,  with  all  the  spiritual  magniticence  which 
they  shed  on  the  Campagna  or  on  the  marble  deserts  of 
Egypt."  lie  is  speaking  here,  of  course,  of  the  spiritual 
excitement  of  Beauty,  which  crops  up  every  where  in  Na 
ture,  like  gold  in  a  rich  region-;  but  the  quality  of  the 
imagery  indicates  the  character  of  tho  scenery  in  which, 
the  essay  was  written. 

Concord  is  too  far  from  Boston  to  rival  in  garden  culti 
vation  its  neighbors,  West  Cambridge,  Lexington  and  Wal- 
tham;  nor  can  it  boast,  with  Brookline,  Dorchester  and  Cam 
bridge,  the  handsome  summer  homes  of  city  wealth.  But, 
it  surpasses  them  all,  perhaps,  in  a  genuine  country  fresh 
ness  and  feeling,  derived  from  its  loneliness.  If  not  touched 
by  city  elegance,  niether  is  it  infected  by  city  meretricious- 
ness —  it  is  sweet,  wholesome  country.  By  climbing  one 
of  the  hills,  your  eye  sweeps  a  wide,  wide  landscape,  until 
it  rests  upon  graceful  AVachuset,  or,  further  and  mistier, 
Monadnoc,  the  lofty  outpost  of  New  Hampshire  hills. 
Level  scenery  is  not  tame.  Tho  ocean,  the  prairie,  the 
desert,  are  not  tame,  although  of  monotonous  surface.  Tin- 
gentle  undulations  which  mark  certain  scenes,  —  a  rippling 
landscape,  in  which  all  sense  of  space,  of  breadth  and. of 


EMERSON.  243 

height  is  lost, — that  is  tame.  It  may  bo  made  beautiful  by 
exquisite  cultivation,  ad  it  often  is  in  England  and  on  'parts 
of  the  Hudson  shores,  but  it  is,  at  best,  rather  pleasing  than 
inspiring.  For  a  permanent  view  the  eye  craves  large  and 
simple  forms,  as  the  body  requires  plain  food  for  its  bc-i 
nourishment. 

The  town  of  Concord  is  built  mainly  upon  one  side 'of 
the  river.  In  its  centre  is  a  large  open  square,  shaded  by 
tine  elms.  A  white  wooden  church,  in  the  most  classical 
style  of  Yankee-Greek,  stands  upon  the  square.  The  Court 
House  is  upon  one  of  the  corners.  In  the  old  Court  UOUM-, 
111  the  days  when  I  knew  Concord,  many  conventions  weiv 
held  for  humane  as  well  as  merely  political  objects.  On*' 
summer'  day  I  especially  remember,  when  I  did  not  envy 
Athens  its  forum,  for  Emerson  and  William  Henry  Chan- 
ning  spoke.  In  the  speech  of  both  burned  the  sacred  tire 
of  eloquence,  but  in  Emerson  it  was  light,  and  in  Chunming 
heat. 

From  this  square  diverge  four  roads,  like  highways  from 
u  forum.  One  leads  by  the  Court  House  and  under  stately 
sycamores  to  the  Old  Manse  and  the  buttle-ground,  another 
goes  directly  to  the  river,  and  a  third  is  the  main  avenue  of 
the  town.  After  passing  the  shops  this  third  divides,  and 
one  branch  forms  a  fair  and  noble  street,  spacious  and  loftily 
arched  with  elms,  the  houses  standing  liberally  apart,  each 
with  its  garden-plot  in  front.  The  fourth  avenue  is  tho  old 
Boston  road,  also  dividing,  at  the  edge  of  the  village,  into 
tho  direct  route  to  the  metropolis  and  the  Lexington  turn 
pike. 

The  house  of  Mr,  Emerson  stands  opposite  this  junction. 


HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

It  is  a  plain,  square,  white  dwelling-house,  yet  it  has  a  city 
air,  and  could  not  be  mistaken  for  a  farmhouse.  A  quiet 
merchant,  you  would  say,  unostentatious  and  simple,  has 
here  hidden  himself  from  town.  Hut  a  thick  grove  of  pine 
ami  fir-trees,  almost  brushing  the  two  windows  upon  the 
right  of  the  door,  and  occupying  the  space  between  them 
and  the  road,  suggests  at  least  a. peculiar  taste  in  the  retired 
merchant,  or  hints  the  possibility  that  he  may  have  sold  his 
place  to  a  Pout  or  Philosopher,  —  or  to  some  old  Kast  India 
sea-captain,  perhaps,  who  cannot  sleep  without  the  sound  of 
waves,  and  so  plants  pines  to  rustle,  surf-like,  against  his 
chamber- window. 

The  fact,  strangely  enough,  partly  supports  your  theory. 
•In  the  year  1828  Charles  Coolidge,  a  brother  of  J.  Toinple- 
inan  Coolidge,  a  merchant  of  repute  in  Boston,  and  grandson 
of  Joseph  Coolidge,  a  patriarchal  denizen  of  Bowdoin  Square 
in  that  city,  came  to  Concord  and  built  this  house,  (irate- 
fully  remembering  the  lofty  horse-chestnuts  which  shaded 
the  city  square,  and  which,  .perhaps,  first  inspired  him*  with 
the  wish  to  be  a  nearer  neighbor  of  woods  and  fields,  he 
planted  a  row  of  them  along  his  lot,  which  this  year  ripen 
their. twenty-lifth  harvest.  With  the  liberal  hospitality  of  a 
New  England  merchant,  he  did  not  forget  the  spacious  col 
lars  of  the  city,  and,  as  Mr,  Emerson  writes,  "he  built  the 
only  good  cellar  that  had  then  bcvu  built  in  Concord." 

Mr.  Emerson  bought  the  house  in  the  year  1885.  lie 
found  it  a  plain,  convenient,  and  thoroughly-built  country 
residence.  An  amiable  neighbor  of  Mr.  Coolidge  bad  placed 
a  miserable  old  barn  irregularly  upon  the  edge  of  that  gen 
tleman's  lot,  which,  tbr  the  sake  of  comeliness,  he  was  forced 


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KMKRSON.  245 

to  buy  oiid  set  straight  and  smooth  into  a  decent  dependence 
of  the  mansion-house.  The  estate,  upon  passing  into  Mr. 
Emerson's  hands,  comprised  the  house,  barn,  and  two  acres 
of  hind,  lie  has  enlarged  liou.se  and  barn,  and  the  two 
acres  have  grown  to  nine.  Our  author  is  no  farmer,  except 
as  every  country  gentleman  is,  yet  the  kindly  slope  from  the 
rear  of  the  house  to  a  little  brook,  which,  passing  to  the 
calm  Concord  beyond,  washes  the  edge  of  his  land,  yields 
him  at  least  occasional  beans  and  peas,  —  or  some  friend, 
agriculturally  enthusiastic,  and  an  original  Urook  Farmer,, 
experiments  with  guano  in  the  garden,  and  produces  melons 
and  other  vines  with  a  success  that  relieves  Brook  Farm 
from  every  slur  of  inadequate  practical  genius.  Mr.  Emer 
son  has  shaded  his  originally  bare  land  with  trees,  and 
counts  near  a  hundred  apple  and  pear  trees  in  his  orchard. 
The  whole  estate  is  quite  level,  inclining  only  toward  the  Ijt- 
tle  brook,  and  is  well  watered  and  convenient. 

The  Orphic  Alcott, —  or  Plato  Skitnpole,  as  Aspa-ia 
called  him,  —  well  known  in  the  transcendental  history  of 
New  England,  designed  and  with  his  own  hands  erected  a 
summer-house,  which  gracefully  adorns  the  lawn,  if  I  may 
so  call  the  smooth  grass-plot  at  the  side  of  the  house.  Un 
happily,  this  edifice  promises  no  long  duration,  not  being 
**  technically  based  and  pointed."  This  is  not  a  strange, 
although  a  disagreeable  fact,  to  Mr.  Emerson,  who  has  been 
always  the  most  faithful  and  appreciating  of  the  lovers  of 
'  Mr.  Alcott.  It  is  natural  that,  the  Orphic  Alcott  should 
build  graceful  summer-houses.  There  are  even  people  who 
declare  that  he  has  covered  the  pleasant  but  somewhat 
misty  lawns  of  ethical  speculation  with  a  thousand  such 


246  HOMES    OF    AM  KICK   AN     AUTHORS. 

edifices,  which  need  only  to  be  a  little  more  "  technically 
based  and  pointed  "  to  be  quite  perfect.  At  present,  they 
whisper,  the  wind  blows  clean  through  them,  and  no  iigures 
of  flesh  and  blood  are  ever  Been  there,  but  only  pallid  phan 
toms  with  large,  calm  eyes,  eating  uncooked  grain  out  ot 
baskets,  and  discoursing  in  a  sublime  shibboleth  of  which 
mortals  have  no  key.  But  how  could  Plato  Skimpole,  who 
goes  down  to  Ilingham  on  the  sea,  in  a  New  England  Jan 
uary,  clad  only  in  a  suit  of  linen,  hope  to  build  immortal 
summer-houses  ? 

Mr.  Emerson's  Library  is  the  room  at  the  right  of  the 
door  upon  entering  the  house.  It  is  a  simple  square  room, 
not  walled  with  books  like  the  den  of  a  literary  grub,  nor 
merely  elegant  like  the  ornamental  retreat  of  a  dilettante. 
The  books  are  arranged  upon  .plain  shelves,  not  in  architec 
tural  bookcases,  and  the  room  is  hung  with  a  few  choice 
engravings  of  the  greatest  men.  There  was  a  fair  copy  of 
Michael  Angelo's  "  Fates,"  which,  properly  enough,  impart 
ed  that  grave  serenity  to  the  ornament  of  the  room  which  is 
always  apparent  in  what  is  written  there.  It  is  the  study  of 
a  scholar.  All  our  author's  published  writings,  the  essays, 
orations,  and  poems,  date  from  this  room,  as  much  as  they 
date  from  any  place  or  moment.  The  villagers,  indeed, 
fancy  their  philosophical  contemporary  affected  by  the  nov 
el  i'st  James's  constancy  of  composition.  They  relate,  with 
wide  eyes,  that  he  has  a. huge  manuscript  book,  in  which  be 
incessantly  records  the  ends  of  thoughts,  bits  of  observation 
and  experience,  and  facts  of  all  kinds,  —  a  kind  of  intellec 
tual  -and  scientific  rag-lmg,  into  which  all  shreds  and  rem 
nants  of  conversations  and  reminiscences  of  wayside  reveries 


EMERSON.  247 

are  incontinently  thrust.  This  work  goes  on,  they  aver,  day 
and  night,  and  when  he. travels  the  rag-bag  travels  too,  ar»d 
grows  more  plethoric  with  each  inilo  of  the  journey.  And  a 
story,  which  will  one  day  he  a  tradition,  is  perpetuated  in 
the  village,  that  one  night,  before  his  wife  had  become  com 
pletely  accustomed  to  his  habits,  she  awoke  suddenly,  and 
hearing  him  groping  about  the  room,  inquired  anxiously, -r- 

44  My  dear,  are  you  unwell  ?" 

"  No,  my  love,  only  an  idea." 

The  Library  is  not  only  the  study  of  a  scholar,  it  is  the 
bower  of  a  poet.  The  pines  lean  against  the  windows,  and 
to  the  student  deeply  sunk  in  learned  lore,  or  soaring  upon 
the  daring  speculations  of  an  intrepid  philosophy,  they  whis 
per  a  fiecret  beyond  that  of  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  ping 
of  the  springs  of  poetry. 

The  site  of  the  house  is  not  memorable.  There  is  no 
reasonable  ground  to  suppose  that  BO  much  as  an  Indian 
wigwam  ever  occupied  the  spot ;  nor  has  Henry  Thoreau,  a 
very  faithful  friend  of  Mr.  Emerson's,  and  of  the  woods  and 
waters  of  his  native  Concord,  ever  found  an  Indian  arrow 
head  upon  the  premises.  Henry  Thoreau's  instinct  is  as  sure- 
toward  the  facts  of  nature  as  the  witch-hazel  toward  treasure. 
If  every  quiet  country  town  in  New  England  had  a  son, -who, 
with  a  lore  like  SclbornoX  and  an  eye  like  Buffon's,  had 
watched  and  studied  its  landscape  and  history,  and  then 
published  the  result,  as  Thoreau  has  done,  in  a  book  as  rcdo- 
lent  of  genuine  and  perceptive  sympathy  with  nature,  as  u 
dover-lield  of  honey,  Xew  England  would  seem  as  poetic 
and  beautiful  as  Greece.  Thoreau  lives  in  the  Kerry-pas 
tures  upon  a  bank  over  Walden  pond,  and  in  a  little  house 


248  II  O  M,E  3    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

of  hid  own  building.  One  pleasant  summer  afternoon  a 
small  party  of  us  helped  him  raise  it — u  bit  of  life  as  Arca 
dian  as  any  at  Brook  Farm.  Elsewhere  in  the  village  he 
turns  up  arrowheads  abundantly,  and  Hawthorne  mention* 
that  Thoreau  initiated  him  into  the  mystery  of  finding  them. 
Lint  neither  the  Indians,  nor  Nature,  nor  Thoreau  can  invest 
the  quiet  residence  of  our  author  with  tho  dignity,  or  even 
the  suspicion  of  a  legend.  History  stops  short  in  that  direc 
tion  with  Charles  Coolidge,  Ksq.,  and  the  year  18iiS. 

There  is  little  prospect  from  the  house.  Directly  oppo 
site  a  low  blutf  overhangs  the  Boston  road  and  obstructs  the 
view.  Upon  the  other  sides  the  level  land  stretches  awav. 
Toward  Lexington  it  is  a  broad,  half-marshy  region,  and 
between  the  brook  behind  and  the  river,  good  farms  lie 
upon  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Pilgrims  drawn  to  Con 
cord  by  tho  desire  of  conversing  with  the  man,  whose  writ 
ten  or  spoken  eloquence  has  so  profoundly  charmed  them, 
and  who  have  placed  him  in  some  pavilion  of  fancy,  some 
peculiar  residence,  find  him  in  no  porch  of 'philosophy  nor 
academic  grove,  but  in  a  plain  white  house  by  tho  wayside, 
ready  to  entertain  every  comer  as  an  ambassador  from  some 
remote  Cathay  of  speculation  whence  the  stars  arc  more 
nearly  seen.  But  the  familiar  reader  of  our  author  will 
not  bo  surprised  to  find  the. ."  walking  eye-ball"  simply 
sheltered,  and  the  "  endless  experimenter  with  no  past  at 
my  back,"  housed  without  ornament.  Such  a  reader  will 
have  felt  tho  Spartan  severity  of  this  intellect,  and  have 
noticed  that  the  realm  of  this  imagination  is  rather  sculps 
turCsquo  than  pictorial,  more  Greek  than  Italian.  Therefore 
ho  will  bo  pleased  to  alight  at  the  little  gate,  and  hear  the 


•    KM  £1130 N.  249 

breesiy  welcome  of  the  pines,  and  the  no  leas  cordial  &atuta- 
tion  of  their  owner.  For  if  the  visitor  knows  what  he  is 
about,  he  has  come  to  this  plain  for  bracing,  mountain  air. 
These  serious  Concord  roaches  are  no  vale  of  Cashmere. 
Whcrej  Plato  Skimpole  is  architect  of  the  summer-house, 
you  nim)r  imagine  what  is  to  be  expected  in  the  man>T<>n 
itself.  It- is  always  morning  within  those  doors,  "If  yon 
have  nothing  to  say,  —  if  you  are  really  not  an.  envoy  from 
MHiie-  kingdom  or  colony  of  thought,  and  cannot  cast  a  gem 
upon  the  heaped  pile,  you  had  better  pass  by  upon  the  other 
side.  .  For  it  is  the  peculiarity  of  Emerson's  mind  to  IK* 
always  on  the  alert.  He  eati  no  lotus,  but  for  ever  quaffs 
the  waters  which  engender  immortal  thirst. 

If  the  memorabilia  of  his  house  could  find  their  proper 
Xenophon,  the  want  of  antecedent  arrowheads  upon  thv 
premises  would  not  prove  very  disastrous  to  the  interest  oi" 
the  history.  The  fame  of  the  philosopher  attracts  admiring 
friends  and  enthusiasts  from  every  quarter,  and  the  scholarly 
grace  and  urbane  hospitality  of  the  gentleman  send  them 
charmed  away.  Friendly  foes,  who  altogether  differ  from 
Kmcrson,  come  to  break  a  lance  with  him  upon  the  level 
pastures  of  Concord,  with  all  the  cheerful  and  appreciative 
zeal  of  those  who  longed 

"  To  drink  delight  of  buttlo  with  their  pcora 
Fur  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy." 

It  is  not  hazardous  to  say  that  the  greatest  questions  of  our 
day  and  of  all ''days,  have  been  nowhere  more  amply  dis 
cussed,  with  more  poetic  insight  or  profound  conviction, 
than  in  the  comely,  square  white  house  upon  the  edge  of 


250  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    A'UTUOllS. 

flu-  Lexington  turnpike.  There  have  even  been  attempts  at 
soH&thing  more  formal  and  club-like  than  the  chance  con 
versations  of  occasional  guests,  one  of  which  will  certainly 
tie  nowhere  recorded  but  upon  these  puges. 

It  wad  in  the  year  18-15  that  a  circle  of  persons  of  vari- 
«»us  ages,  and  differing  very  much  in  every  thing  but  sym 
pathy,  found  themselves  in  Concord.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  autumn  Mr.  Emerson  suggested  that  they  should  meet 
every  Monday  evening  through  the  winter  in  his  Library. 
**  Monsieur  Aubepine,"  u  Miles  Coverdale,"  and  other  phan 
toms,  since  generally  known  as  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  who 
then  occupied  the  Old  Manse — the  inflexible  Henry  Thoroau, 
a  scholastic  and  pastoral  Orson,  then  living  ami->ng  the  black 
berry  pastures  of  Walden  pond —  Plato  Skimpole,  thon  biih- 
limely  meditating  impossible  summer-houses  in  a  little  house 
up«»n  the  Boston  road  —  the  enthusiastic  agriculturist  ami 
Hrook  Farmer  already  mentioned,  then  an  inmate  of  Mr. 
Emerson's  house,  who  added  the  genial  cultivation  of  a 
scholar  to  the  amenities  of  the  natural  gentleman  —  a  stur 
dy  farmer  neighbor,  who  had  bravely  fought  his  weary  way 
through  inherited  embarrassments  to  the  small  success  of 
a  New  England  husbandman,  and  whose  faithful  wife  had 
seven  times  merited  well  of  .her  country  —  two  city  youths, 
ready  for  the  fragments  from  the  feast  of  wit  and  wisdom  — 
and  the  host  himself,  composed  this  Club..  Ellcry  Channing, 
who* had  that  winter  harnessed  his  Pegasus  to  the  New-York 
Tribune,  was  a  kind  of  corresponding  member.  The  news  of 
this  world  was  to  be  transmitted  through  his  eminently  prac 
tical  genius,  as  the  Club  deemed  itself  competent  to  take 
charge  of  tidings  from  all  other  spheres. 


EMERSON*.  251 

I  went,  tlio  first  Monday  evening,  very  much  as  Ixion 
may  have  gone  to  his  banquet.  The  philosophers  sat  digni 
fied  and  erect.  There  was  a  constrained,  hut  very  amiable 
silence,  which  hud  the  impertinence  of  a  tacit  inquiry,  seem- 
ing  to  ask,  *%  Who  will  now  proceed  to  say  'he  finest  thing 
that  has  ever  been  said  i "  It  was  quite  involuntary  anil 
unavoidable,  tor  the  members  lacked  that  lluent  social 
genius  without  which  a  Club  is  impossible.  It  was  a  Con* 
gress.  of  oracles  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  curious  listeners 
upon  the  other.  I  vaguely  remember  that  the  Orphic  Al- 
cott  invaded  the  Sahara  of  silence  with  a  solemn  "  saving," 
to  which,  after  due  pause,  the  honorable  member  lor  black 
berry  pastures  responded  by  some  keen  and  graphic  obser 
vation,  while  the  Olympian  host,  anxious  that  so  much  good 
material  should  be  spun  into  something,  beamed  smiling 
encouragement  upon  all  parties.  J>ut  the  conversation  ln?- 
came  more  and  more  staccato.  Miles  Coverdale,  a  statue  of 
night  and  silence,  sat,  a  little  removed,  under  a  portrait  of 
Dante,  gaxing  imperturbably  upon  the  group;  and  as  he  sat 
in  the  shadow,  his  dark  hair  and  eyes  and  suit  of  sable* 
made  him,  in  that  society,  the  black  thread  of  mystery  which 
he  weaves  into  his  stones,  while  the  slutting  presence  of  .the 
IJrouk  Farmer  played  like  heat-lightning  around  the  room. 

I  recall  little  else  but  a  grave  eating  of  russet  apples  by 
the  erect  philosophers,  and  a  solemn  disappearance  tut*- 
night.  The  Club  struggled  through  three  Monday  evening-. 
Plato  was  perpetually  putting  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of 
silver;  for  such  was  the  rich  ore  of  his  thoughts,  coined  by 
the  deep  melody  of  his  voice.  Orson  charmed  us  with  the 
secrets  won  from  his  interviews  with  Pan  in  the  Wuhleii 


252  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

woods — while  Emerson,  with  the  awal  of  an  engineer  trying 
to  dam  wild  waters,  sought  to  bind  the  wide-flying  em 
broidery  of  discourse  into  a  web  of  clear  sweet  sense.  But 
still  in  vain.  The  oracular  sayings  were  the  unalloyed  sac 
charine  clement ;  and  every  chemist  knows  how  much  else 
goes  to  practical  food — how  much  coar.se,  rough,  woody  fibre 
is  essential.  The  Club  struggled  on  valiantly,  discoursing 
celestially,  eating  apples,  and  disappearing  in  the  dark,  until 
the  third  evening  it  Vanished  altogether.  l*ut  I  have  since 
known  clubs  of  fifty  times  that  number,  who.se  collective 
genius  was  not  more  than  that  of  either  one  of  the  Dii  Ma- 
jores  of  our  Concord  coterie.  The  fault  was  its  too  great 
concentration.  It  was  hot  relaxation,  as  a  club  should  be, 
but  tension.  Society  is  a  play,  a  game,  a  tournament ;  not  a 
battle.  It  is  the  easy  grace  of  undress  ;  not  an  intellectual, 
full-dress  parade. 

I  have  already  hinted  this  unbending  intellectual  ahtcrity 
of  our  author.  His  Hport  is  serious — his  humor  is  earnest. 
He  stands  like  a  sentinel.  His  look,  and  manner,  and  habit 
-of  thought  cry  "  Who  goes  there  ?"  and  if  he  does  not  hear 
the  countersign,  he  brings  the  intruder  to  a  halt.  It  is  for 
this'  surprising  fidelity  and  integrity  that  his  influence  has 
been  so  deep,  and  sure,. and  permanent,  upon  the  intellectual 
Kit;  of  the  young  men  of  Now  England;  and  of  Old  Kng- 
land,  tdo,.  where  in  Manchester  there  wore  regular  weeklv 
meetings  at  which  his  works  were  read.  What  he  said  long 
ago  iu*  his  preface  to  the  American  edition  of  Carlyle's  Mis 
cellanies,  that  they  were  papers  which  had  spoken  to  the 
yo.ung  men  of  the  time  •"  with  an  emphasis  that  hindered 
them  from  sleep,"  is  strikingly  true  of  his  own  writings. 


EMERSON.  253 

His  first  Blim,  anonymous  duodecimo,  "  Nature,"  was  as  lair 
and  fascinating  to  the  royal  young  minds  who  met  it  in  thu 
course  of  their  reading,  as  Egeria  to  Numa  wandering  in  the 
grove.  The  essays,  orations,  and  poems  followed,  develop 
ing  and  elaborating  the  same  spiritual  ami  heroic  philosophy, 
applying  it  to  life,  history,  and  literature,  with  a  vigor  antl 
richness  so  supreme,  that  not  only  do  many  account  him  our 
truest  philosopher,  hut  others  acknowledge  him  as  our  most 
characteristic  pcet. 

It  would  be  a  curious  inquiry  how  much  and  what  kind 
of  influence  the  placid  scenery  of  Concord  has  exercised 
upon  his  mind.  "  I  chide  society,  1  embrace  solitude,"  he 
says;  "ami  yet  I  am  not  so  ungrateful  as  not  to  see  thv 
wise,  the  lovely,  and  the  noble-minded,  as  from  time  to  time 
they  pass  my  gate."  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  his 
fondness  for  the  spot,  lie  has  been  always  familiar  with  it, 
always  more  or  less  a  resident  of  the  village.  Horn  in  Bos 
ton  upon  the  spot  where  the  Channeey  Place  Church  now 
Mauds,  part  of  his  youth  was  passed  in  the  Old  Manse, 
which  was  built  by  his  grandfather  and  in  which  his  father 
was  born;  ami  there  he  wrote  "Nature."  From  the  mag 
nificent  admiration  of  ancestral  England,  he  was  glad  to 
return  two  years  since  to  quiet  Concord,  and  to  acres 
which  will  not  yield  a  single  arrowhead.  The  Swiss 
sigh  for  their  mountains;  but  the  Nubians,  also,  pine  for 
their  desert  plains.  Those  who  are  born  by  the  seil  long 
annually  to  return,  and  to  rest  their  eyes  upon  its  living 
horizon.  Is  it  because  the  earliest  impressions  made  when 
the  mind  is  most  plastic,  are  most  durable  f  or  because  youth 
is  that  golden  age  bounding  the  confines  of  memory,  and 


254  UOMES    OF    AMEUICAN    AUTIJOK8. 

floating  for  ever,  an  alluring  mirage,  as  we  recede  further 
from  it?    ' 

The  imagination  of  the  man  -who  roams  the  solitary  pas 
tures  of  Concord,  or  floats,  dreaming,  down  its  river,  will 
easily  see  its  landscape  upon  Emerson's  pages.  "  That 
country  is  fairest,"  he  says,  "  which  is  inhabited  liy  tin* 
noblest  minds."  And  although .  that  idler 'upon  the  rivor 
may  have  leaned  over  the  Mediterranean  from  Genoese-  and 
Neapolitan  villas — or  have  glanced  down  the  steep,  green 
valley  of  Sicilian  Enna,  seeking  "  herself  the  fairest  flower,* 
or  walked  the  shores  where  Cleopatra  and  Helen  walked— 
yet  the  charm  of  a  landscape  which  is  felt,  rather  than  scon, 
will  l>e  imperishable.  "Travelling  is  a  Fool's  Paradise," 
says  Emerson.  But  he  passed  its  gates  to  learn  that  U-s- 
son.  His  writings,  however,  have  no  imported  air.  If 
there  bo  something  oriental  in  his  philosophy  and  tropical 
in  his  imagination,  they  have  yet  the  strong  flavor  of  his1 
Mother  Earth — the  underived  sweetness  of  the  open  Con 
cord  sky,. and  the  spacious  breadth  of  the  Concord  horizon. 


Militant  6ilmore  Simms. 


m 


' 


rl'1' 

*• 


- 


.SIMMS. 


fill  IK  country  resilience  of  William  Gilmoro  Sinnns  is  on 
A  the  plantation  of  his  father-in-law,  Mr.  Roach,  in  Earn- 
well  District,  South  Carolina,  near  Midway;  a  railway  station, 
at  just  half  the  distance  between  Charleston  and  Augusta. 
Here  he  parses  half  the  year,  the  most  agreeable  half  in 
that  climate, — its  pleasant  winter,  and  portions  of  its  spring 
and  autumn — in  a  thinly  settled  country  divided  into  large 
[limitations,  principally  yielding  cotton,  with  smaller  fields 
'of  maize,  sweet  potatoes,  pea-nuts,  and  other  productions  of 
the  region,  to  which  the  sugar-cane  has  lately  been  added. 

Forests  of  oak,  and  of  the  majestic  long-leaved  pine, 
surround  the  dwelling,  interspersed  with  broad  openings, 
and  stretch  far  away  on  all  sides.  In  the  edge  of  one  of 
them  arc  the  habitations  of  the  negroes  by  whom  the  plan 
tation  is  cultivated,  who  are  indulgently  treated  and  lead 
an  easy  life.  The  bridle-roads  through  these  noble  for 
ests,  over  the  hard  white  sand  from  which  rise  the  lofty 
stems  of  the  pines,  are  very  beautiful.  Sometimes  they 
17 


H  O  M  K  S    O  F    A  M  E  U  I  C  A  N     A  U  T  11  O  it  *  . 

wind  by  the  borders  of  swamps,  grecu  in  midwinter  with  the 
holly,  the  red  bay,  and  other  trees  that  wear  their  leaves 
throughout  the  year,  among  which  the  yellow  jessamine 
twines  itself  and  forms  dense  arbors,  perfuming  the  air  in 
March  to  a  great  distance  with  ihe  delicate  odor  of  its  blos 
soms.  Ill  the  midst  of  these  swamps  rises  the  tall  Virginia 
cypress,  with  its  roots  in  the  dark  water,  the  summer  haunt 
of  the  alligator,  who  sleeps  away  the  winter  in  holes  made 
under  the  bank.  Mr.  Simms,  both  in  his  noetry  and  prose, 
has  made  large  and  striking  use  of  the  imagery  supplied 
by  the  peculiar  scenery  of  this  region. 

The  house  is  a  spacious  country  dwelling,  without  any 
pretensions  to  architectural  elegance,  comfortable  for  the 
climate,  though  built  without  that  attention  to  what  a  South 
Carolinian  would  call  the  unwholesome  exclusion  of  the 
outer  air  which  is  thought  necessary  in  these  colder  lati 
tudes.  Around  it  are  scattered  a  number  of  smaller  build 
ings  of  brick,  and  a  little  further  stand  rows  and  clumps  of 
evergreens — the  water-oak,  with  its  glistening  light-colored 
foliage,  the  live-oak,  with  darker  leaves, 'and  the  Carolina 
bird-cherry,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  trees  of  the  South, 
blooming  before  the  winter  is  past,  and  murmuring-  with 
multitudes  of  bees.  In  one  of  the  lower  rooms  of  this  dwell 
ing,  in  the  midst  of  a  well  chosen  library,  many  of  the  works 
which  comprise  the  numerous  catalogue  of  Mr.  Simms's 
works  were  written. 

Mr.  Simms  was  born  April  17, 1800,  in  the  State  of  South 
Carolina.  It  was  at  iii>t  intended  that  he  should  study  med 
icine,  but  his  inclinations  having  led  him  to  the  law,  he  de 
voted  himself  to  the  study  of  that  profession.  His  literary 


SIMMS.  259 

Itabits  arc  very  uniform.  His  working  hours  usually  com- 
mence  ia  the.  morning,  and  last  till  two  or  three  in  the  alter- 
uoon,  after  which  he  indulges  in  out-door  recreations,  in  read 
ing,  or  society.  If  friends  or  visitors  hreak  into  his  hours  of 
morning  labor,  which  he  does  not  often  permit,  he  usually 
redeems  the  lost  time  at  night,  after  the  guests  have  retired, 
•lie  is  a  late  sitter,  and  consequently  a  late  riser.  Landscape 
gardening  is  one  of  his  favorite  pastimes,  and  the  groumU 
adjoining  his  residence  aiford  agreeable  evidence  of  his 
good  taste. 

Mr.  Si mms  is  a  man  of  athletic  make,  a  full  muscular 
development,  and  a  fresh  complexion,  tokens  of  vigorous 
health,  which  however  is  not  without  its  interruptions,  ow 
ing,  I  doubt  not,  to  his  etudious'and  sedentary  habits;  for  al 
though  not  indisposed  to  physical  exertion,  the  inclination  to 
mental  activity  in  the  form  of  literary  occupation,  predomi 
nates  with  him  over  every  other  taste  and  pursuit.  His  man 
ia- iv,  like  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  are  singularly 
frank  and  ingenuous,  his  temper  generous  and  sincere,  his  do 
mestic  affections  strung,  his  friendships  faithful  and  lasting, 
and  hi*  life  blameless.  Xo  man  ever  wore  his  character  more 
iu  the  general  sight  of  men  than  ho,  or  had -ever  less  occasion 
'to-do  otherwise.  The  activity  of  mind  of  which  1  have  spoken, 
i.i  as  apparent  in  his  conversation  as  in  his  writings.  He  is 
fond  of  discussion,  likes  to  pursue  an  argument  to  its  final 
retreat,  and  is  not  unwilling  to  complete  a  disquisition  which 
others,  in  their  ordinary  discourse,  would  leave  in  outline. 
He  has  travelled  extensively  in  the  South  and  Southwest.. 
mingling  freely  with  all  classes,  and  has  accumulated  an 
apparently  exhaustless  fund  of  anecdotes  and  incidents,  illus 


260  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUT1IOKS. 

trutivo  of  lifo  and  manners.  These  lie  relates,  with  groat 
zest  and  inimitable  humor,  reproducing  to  perfection  the  pe 
culiar  dialect  and  tones  of  the  various  characters  introduced/ 
whether  Band-lappcr,  backwoodsman,  half-breed,  or  negro. 

His  literary  character  has  this  peculiarity,  which  I  may 
call  remarkable,  that  writing  tas  he  does  with  very  great 
rapidity,  and  paying  little  regard  to  the  objections  brought 
by  others  against  what  he  writes,  he  has  gone  on  improving 
upon  himself.  His  first  attempts  in  poetry  were  crude  and 
jejune.  As  he  proceeded,  ho  left  them  immeasurably  be 
hind,  in  command  of  materials  and  power  of  execution,  till . 
in  his  beautiful  poem  of  Atuluntis,  the  finest,  I  think,  he  has 
written,  his  faculties  seem  to  have  nearly  reached  their  ma 
turity  in  this  department.  One  of  his  pieces,  entitled  "The 
Edge  of  the  Swamp,"  may  be  quoted  here  not  only  as  a 
specimen  of  his  descriptive  verse,  but  as  an  illustration  of 
the  peculiar  source  from  which  his  imagery  is  derived  :  — 


"TU  a  wild  bjK)t  ami  hath  a  gloomy  look; 
The  bird  bings  never  merrily  in  the  trees, 
And  the  young  leaves  seem  blighted.     A  runk  growth 
Hjireuds  powonoualy  rouml,  with  |>ower  to  taint, 
With  blistering  de\\  js  the  thoughtless  hand  that  dan-a 
To  |>enetrate,  the  covert.     Cyjiressen 
Crowd  on  the  dank,  wet  earth ;  and,  stretched  at  length, 
The  euyman  —  a  fit  dweller  in  sueh  home  — 
Slumber*,  half  buried  in  the  sedgy  grass, 
lie^ulc  the  green  ooze  where  ho  shelters  him. 
A  whooping  erune  ereeta  his  «kelet«»n  form, 
And  bhrieks  in  flight.     Two  tmiumer  dueks  aroused 
To  a|>i»rehen*ion,  us  they  hear  hid  ery, 

itj>  from  the  lagoon,  with  marvellous  haste, 


SIMMS.  261 

Fojlowiiig  hw  guidance.    Meetly  taught  by  tluw, 

And  r.tan l«  d  at  uur  i  apid,  near  approach, 

The  fctoel-jftWed  monster,  from  his  grassy  bed, 

(Yawl*  blow  ly  to  his  .-limy,  green  alx>do, 

Which  atraight  receives  him.     You  behold  him  now, 

His  ridgy  t»ack  uprising  as  he  speed*, 

In  tilt-in-'-,  to  the  eeutre  of  the  btream, 

Whence  his  head  j-<  «TS  ulono.     A  butterfly 

That,  travelling  all  ihe  day,  has  counted  clime* 

Only  by  flowers,  to  rest  himself  awhile, 

Lights  on  the  monster's  brow.    The  *urly  mute        ,     . 

Si  i-aiu'Iit  \vuy  gooa  down,  HJ  suddenly,  that  he, 

The  dandy  of  the  summer  flowers  and  wooda, 

l>i|>s  his  li'_rlit  wiug>\  and  spoils  his  golden  coat, 

With  the  rank  water  of  that  turbid  j>ond, 

Wondering  and  vexed,  the  plumcM  citi/en 

Flies,  with  an  hurried  elFort,  to  the  ehoiv, 

Seeking  his  kindred  tlowei*s:  —  but  s«-eks  in  vain  — 

Nt»thing  of  genial  growth  may  there  be  been, 

Nothing  of  K-autiful !     Wild,  ragged  trees, 

That  look  like  felon  hpeetres,  — fetid  hhrulw, 

That  taint  the  gh)omy  atmosphere  —  dusk  shadea, 

That  gather,  half  a  cloud,  and  half  a  tiend 

In  aspect,  lurking  on  the  bwamp's  wild  edge, — 

(il(H»m  with  their  (4erniie>s  and  forbidding  frowns 

The  general  prospect.     The  tad  butterfly, 

Waving  his  lackered  wings,  darts  quickly  on, 

And,  by  his  free  flight,  counsels  Us  to  t>peed, 

l-'or  better  lodgings,  and  u  scene  more  sweet, 

'ilian  the.se  dreur  borders  offer  us  to-night. 

His  prose  writings  show  a  Hiihilur  process  of  gradual  im 
proveinent,  though  in  them  the  change  is  less  marked,  owing 
to  his  having  appeared  bei'ore  tlie  public  as  a  novelist  at  a 
riper  period  of  his  literary  lite.     In  all  that  he  has  written 


262  IIOMKS    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

his  excellencies  are  unborrowed  ;  their  merits  arc  the  devel 
opjnent  of  original  native  germs,  without  any  apparent  aid 
froiu  models.  His  thoughts,  his  diction,  his  arrangement. 
are  his  own ;  he  reminds  you  of  no  other  author ;  even  ly 
the  lesser  graces  of  literary  execution,  he  combines  language 
jitter  no  pattern  set  by  other  authors,  however  beautiful. 

His  novels  have  had  a  wide  circulation, -and  are  admired 
tor  the  rapidity  and  fervor  of  the  narrative,  their  picturesque 
descriptions,  the  energy  with  which  they  express  the  stronger 
emotions,  and  the  force  with  which  they  portray  local  man 
ners.  His  critical  writings,  which  have  appeared  in  the 
Southern  periodicals  and  are  quite  numerous,  are  less  known. 
They  often,  no  doubt,  have  in  them  those  imperfections 
which  belong  to  rapid  composition,  hut  I  must  be  allowed  to 
single  out  from  among  them  one  example  of  great  excel 
lence,  his  analysis  and  estimate  of  the  literary  character  ot 
<Y>oper,  a  critical  essay  of  great  depth  and  discrimination,  to 
which  I  am  not  sure  that  any  thing  hitherto  written  on  the 
same  subject  is  fully  equal,  lie  published  his  "Lyrics''  in 
18:25,  eighteen  years  ago  ;  his  longest  and  best  poem,  "  Ata- 
lantis,  a  Story  of  the  Sea,"  in  lSII*J;  "  Martin  Fahcr,"  "CJuy 
Uivers,"  i;  Yemasce,"  k%  Partisan,"  "  Melliehampe,"  and  many 
others,  in  succession.  The  entire  series  of  his  works,  poetry 
and  prose,  comprises  about  titty  volumes. 


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LONGFELLOW. 


'  Once,  all,  unco,  vrithia  tli.-v  walk, 
One  \vh»»iu  iDcinoiy  oft  rerttlU, 
The  Father  of  his  Country  dwelt ; 
And  yonder  meadow,  bnuid  and  damp, 
The  tires  of  th«  l»«v.ie^in^  rump 
KneiiT.letl  with  a  liurnin^  ln-li, 
Dp  und  down  tin  -i-  «-i-h.iin^  .-lair-, 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of 
Sounded  his  majestie  tread  ; 
Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  ih».-f  hoiirH  of 
Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 


OME  calm  uftcrnuoii  in  the  tmmmcr  of  1837  »  young  man 
passed  down  the  olm-bhadod  walk  that  separated  the  old 
Oragio  Louse,  in  Cambridge,  from  the  high  road.    Hunching 


266  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

the  door,  ho  paused  to  observe  the  huge,  old-fashioned  brass 
knocker,  'and  the  quaint  handle,  —  relies,  evidently,  of  an 
epoch  of  colonial  state.  To  his  mind,  however,  the  house  and 
these  signs  of  its  age,  were  not  interesting  from  the  romance 
of  antiquity  alone,  but  from  their  association  with  the  early 
days  of  our  revolution,  when  General  "Washington,  after  the 
'hat tiu  of  jiunker  Hill,  had  his  headquarters  in  the  mansion. 
Had  his  hand,  perhaps,  lifted  ibis  same  latch,  lingering  as 
ho  clasped  it  in  the  whirl  of  n  myriad  emotions?  Had  he, 
too,  paused  in  the  calm  summer  afternoon,  and  watched  tlie 
silver  gleam  of  the  broad  river  in  the  meadows  —  the  dreamy 
blue  of  the  Milton  hills  beyond?  And  had  the  tranquillity 
of  that  landscape  penetrated  his  heart  with  u  the  sleep  tha-t 
is  among  the  hills,-1'  and  whose  fairest  dream  to  him  was  a 
hope  now  realized  in  the  peaceful  prosperity  of  his  country? 
At  least  the  young  man  knew  that  if  the  details  of  the 
mansion  had  been  somewhat  altered,  so  that  he  could  not 
be  perfectly  sure -of  touching  what  Washington  touched,  yet 
he  saw  what  Washington  t-aw  —  the  same  placid  meadow- 
lands,  the  same  undulating  horizon,  the  name  calm  stream. 
And  it  is  thus  that  an.  old  house  of  distinct  association,  as 
serts  its  claim,  and  secures  its  influence.  It  is  a  nucleus  of 
interest,  —  a  heart  of  romance,  from  which  pulse  a  thousand 
reveries  enchanting  the  summer  hours.  For  although  every 
old  country  mansion  is  invested  with  a  nameless  charm,  from 
that  antiquity  which  imagination  is  for  ever  crowding  with 
the  pageant  of  a  stately  and  beautiful  life,  yet  if  there  be 
some  clearly  outlined  story,  even  a  historic  scene  peculiar 
Vo  it,  then  around  that,  as  the  bold  and  picturesque  fore 
ground,  all  the  imagery  of  youth  and  love  and  beauty,  in  a 


LONGFELLOW.  267 

thousandfold  variety  of  development,  is  grouped,  and  every 
room  has  its  poetic  passage,  every  window  it8  haunting  face, 
every  garden  path  its  floating  and  fading  form  of  a  quite  im 
perishable  beauty. 

So  the  young  man  passed  "not  unaccompanied  down  the 
elm-shaded  path,  but  the  air  and  the  scene  were  affluent  of 
radiant  phantoms.  Imaginary  ladies  of  a  state  and  dignity 
only  possible  in  the  era  of  periwigs,  advanced  in  all  tin1 
solemnity  of  mob-caps  to  welcome  the  stranger.  Grave  aid 
courtiers,  be-rutlled,  be-wigged,  sworded  ami  laced,  trod  in- 
audibly,  with  gracious  bow,  the  spacious  walk,  and  comely 
maidens,  resident  in  mortal  memory  now  only  as  hhrivelled 
and  tawny  duennas,  glanced  modest  looks,  and  wondered 
what  new  charm  had  risen  that  morning  upon  the  some 
what  dull  hori/oii  of  fheir  life.  These,  arrayed  in  the  rich 
ness  of  a  poet's  fancy,  advanced  to  welcome  him.  For  well 
they  knew  whatever  of  peculiar  interest  adorned  their  house 
would  blossom  into  permanent  forms  of  beauty  in  the  light 
of  genius.  They  advanced  to  meet  him  as  the  inhabitants 
of  foreign  and  strange  towns  approach  with  supplication  and 
submission  the  leader  in  whose  eye  llames  victory,  MIIV  that 
he  would  do  for  them  more  than  they  could  do  for  them* 
selves. 

Hut  when  the  bra/en  clang  of  the  huge  knocker  luid 
ceased  resounding,  the  great  door  slowly  opened,  and  ru». 
jJumtom  serving-man,  but  a  veritable  flesh  and  blood  re 
tainer  of  the  hostess  of  the  mansion  invited  the  visitor  U» 
enter.  He  inquired  for  Mrs.  Cragie.  In  answer  the  door 
of  -a  little  parlor  was  thrown  open,  and  the  young  man 
beheld  a  tall,  erect  figure,  majestically  crowned  with  a  tur- 


2J68  HOMES. OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

ban,  beneath  which  burned  a  pair  of  keen  gray  eyes.  A 
commanding  gravity  of  deportment,  harmonious  with  the 
gentlewoman's  age,  and  with  the  ancestral  respectability  of 
the  mansion,  assured  profound  respect;  while,  at  a  glance, 
it  was  clear  to  see  that  combination  of  reduced  dignity  con- 
descending  to  a  lower  estate,  and  that  pride  of  essential  supe 
riority  to  circumstances,  which  is  traditional  among  women 
in  the  situation  of  the  turbaned  lady.  There  was  kindliness 
mellowing  the  severity  of  her  reply  to  her  visitor's  inquiry 
if  there  was  a  room  vacant  in  the  house. 

"'I  lodge  students  no  longer,'1  she  responded  gravely, 
possibly  not  without  regret,  —  as  she  contemplated  the  ap 
plicant, —  that  she  had  vowed  so  stern  a  resolution, 

4*  IS  lit  1  am  not  a  student,"  answered  the  stranger  j  u  I 
am  a  Professor  in  the  University." 

"A  Professor?"  said  she  inquiringly,  as  if  her  mind 
failed  to  conceive  a  Professor  without  a  clerical  sobriety  of 
apparel,  a  white  cravat,  or  at  least,  spectacles. 

"Professor  Longfellow,"  continued  the  guest,  introducing 
himself. 

"  Ah !  that  is  different,"  said  the  old  lady,  her  features 
slightly  relaxing,  as  if  professors  were,  ex-oflieio,  innocuous, 
and  she  need  no  longer  barricade  herself  behind  a  stern 
gravity  of  demeanor.  u  I  will  show  you  what  there  is." 

Thereupon  she  preceded  the  Professor  up  the  stairs,  and 
gaining  the  upper  hall,  paused  at  each  door,  opened  it,  per 
mitted  him  to  perceive  its  delightful  fitness  for  his  purpose, — 
kindled  expectation  to  the  utmost  —  then  quietly  closed  the 
door  again,  observing, 4i  You  cannot  have  that."  It  was  most 
Barmecide  hospitality.-  The  professorial  eyes  glanced  rest- 


LONGFELL.OW.  269 

lessly  around  the  fine  old-fashioned  points  of  the  mansion, 
marked  the  wooden  carvings,  the  air  of  opulent  respecta 
bility  in  the  past,  which  corresponds  in  Xew  England  to  the 
impression  of  ancient  no1>ility  in  old  England,  and  wondered 
in  which  of  these  pleasant  fields  of  suggestive  association  Iu< 
was  to  be  allowed  to  pitch  his  tent.  The  turbaned  hostc» 
at  length  opened  the  door  of  the  southeast  corner  room  in 
the  second  story,  and,  while  the  guest  looked  wistfully  in 
and  awaited  the  customary  "  You  cannot  have  that,"  he  was 
agreeably  surprised  by  a  variation  of  the  strain  to  the  efiect 
that  he  might  occupy  it. 

The  room  was  upon  the  front  of  the  house,  and  looked 
over  the  meadows  to  the  river.  It  had  an  atmosphere  of 
fascinating  repose,  in  which  the  young  malt  was  at  one* 
domesticated,  as  in  an  old  home.  The  elms  of  the  avenue 
shaded  his  windows,  and  as  he  glanced  from  them,  the  fiilin- 
HUT  lay  asleep  upon  the  landscape  in  the  windless  day. 

uThis,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  slight  sadness  hi  her 
voice,  as  if  speaking  of  times  for  ever  past  ami  to  which  she 
herself  properly  belonged, — **  this  was  General  Washington'-* 
chamber." 

•A  light  more  pensive  played  over  the  landscape,  in  th0 
Poet's  eyes,  as  he  heard  her  words.  He  knew  that  sijch  a 
presence  had  consecrated  the  house,  and  peculiarly  that 
room,  lie  felt  .that  whoever  tills  the  places  once  occupied 
by  the  great  and  good,  is  himself  held  to  greatness  ami 
goodness  by  a  sympathy  and  necessity  sweet  as  mysterious. 
For  ever  after,  his  imagination  is  a  more  lordly  picture-gal 
lery  than  that  of  ancestral  halls.  Through  that  gallery  he 
wanders,  strong  in  his  humility  ami  resolve,  valiant  as  the 


270  HOMES    OF    AMEKICAN    AUTHORS. 

last  sciou  of  noble  Norman  races,  devoting  himself  as  of 
old  knights  were  devoted,  by  earnest  midnight  meditation 
and  holy  vowa,  to 

"Act, — act  in  tho  living  Present! 
Heart  within,  ami  Uod  oVrhcad  I  " 

Tlio  stately  hostess  retired,  and  the  next  day  the  new 
lodger  took  possession  of  his  room,  lie  lived  entirely  apart 
from  the  old  lady,  although  under  the  same  roof.  Her  man 
ner  of  life  was  quiet  .and  unobtrusive.  The  silence  of  the 
aneicnt  mansion,  which  to'  its  new  resident  was  truly  "  the 
«till  air  of  delightful  studies,"  was  not  disturbed  by  tho 
r»lnill  cackle  of  a  country  household,  lu  the  morning,  after 
|H)  had  settled  himself  to  the  day's  occupation,  tho  scholar 
heard  the  faint  and  measured  tread  of  the  old  lady  as  sho 
descended  to  breakfast,  her  silken  gown  rustling  along  the 
hull  as  if  the  shadowy  brocade  of  some  elder  dame  departed, 
who  failed  to  discover  in  the  ghostly  stillness  of  tho  well- 
known  passage,  that  she  had  wandered  from  her  sphere. 
Then,  after  due  interval,  if,  upon  his  way  to  the  day's  colle 
giate  duties,  the  Professor  entered  the  hostess's  little  parlor 
to  oiler  her  good  morning  or,  make  some  domestic,  sugges- 
4*1011,  he  found  her  seated  by  the  open  window,  through  which 
stole  tho  sweet  Now  England  air,  lifting  the  few  gray  locks 
that  straggled  from  the  turban,  as  tenderly  as  Greek  winds 
played  with  Helen's  curls.  Upon  her  lap  lay  an  open  vol 
ume  of  Voltaire,  possibly,  for  the  catholicity  of  the  old 
lady's  mind  entertained  whatever  was  vigorous  and  free, — 
and  from,  the  brilliant  wit  of  the  Frenchman,  and  his  icy 
precision  of  thought  and  statement,  she  turned  to  the  warm 


LONGFELLOW.  271 

day  that  flooded  the  meadows  with  summer,  and  which  in 
the  high  tree-tops  above  her  head  sang  in  breezy,  fitful 
cadences  of  a  beauty  that  no  denizen  of  the  summer  Miall 
ever  see,  and  a  song  sweeter  than  lie  shall  ever  hear.  It  was 
because  she  had  heard  imd  felt  this  breath  of  nature  that  tin- 
matron  in  her  quaint  old  age  could  enjoy  the  page  of  the 
Frenchman,  even  as  in  her  youth  she  could  have  udm'iivi! 
the  delicacy  of  his  point-lace  rutlles,  nor  have  leas  enjoyed, 
by  reason  of  that  admiration,  the  green  garden-walk  of 
Fcrncy,  in  which  she  might  have  seen  them. 

Or  at  times,  as  the  scholar  studied,  ho  heard  footsteps 
upon  the  walk,  and  the  old  kitoeker  clanged  the  arrival  of 
guests,  who  passed  into  tho  parlor,  and,  as  the  dour  opctHil 
and  closed,  he  could  hear,  far  away  and  confused,  the  sounds 
of  htately  conversation,  until  there  was  a  prolonged  and  loud 
er  noise,  a  bustle,  the  jar  of  the  heavy  door  elo>ing,  the  dying 
echo  of  footsteps,  —  and  then  the  deep  and  ghoMly  silence 
again  closed  around  tho  small  event  as  the  sea  ripples  into 
calm  over  a  sinking  stone.  Or  more  dreamily  btill,  as  at 
twilight  the  Poet  sat  musing  in  his  darkening  room  —  liear: 
ing  the  "footsteps  of  angels"  sounding,  melodious  and  low, 
through  all  the  other  "  voices  of  the  Night,"  he  seemed  to 
catch  snatches  of  mournful  music  thrilling  the  deep  silence 
with  Borrow,  and,  listening  more  intently,  lie  heard  dis 
tinctly  the  harpsichord  in  tho  old  lady's  parlor,  and  knew 
that  she  was  sitting,  turbancd  and  wrinkled,  where  she  had 
sat  in  the  glowing  triumph  of  youth,  and  with  wandering 
fingers  was  drawing  in  feeble  and  uncertain  cadence  from 
the  keys,  tunes  she  had  once  dashed  from  them  in  all  the 
.  fulness  of  harmony.  Or  when,  the  summer  following  the 


274  HOMES    OF    AM  E  HI  CAN    AUTHORS. 

of  its  own  insertion  at  that  period,  inasmuch  as  tho  builder 
of  tho  house  would  hardly  commit  the  authentic  witness  of 
tts  erection  to  the  mercies  of  smoke  and  soot.  History  capi 
tulates  before  the  exact  date  of  the  building  of  the  Oragie 
House,  as  completely  as  before  that  of  the- foundation  of 
Thebes.  ,  lint  the  house  was  evidently  generously  built, 
and  Col.  John  Vassal  haying  lived  there  in  generous  style, 
died,  and  lies  under  the  free-stone  tablet.  His  son  John  fell 
upon  revolutionary  time-*,  and  was  a  royalist.  The  observer 
of  the  house  will  not  be  surprised  at  the  fact.  That  the 
occupant  of  such  a  mansion  should,  in  colonial  troubles, 
side  with  the  government  was  as  natural  as  the  fealty  of  a 
. JougTas  or  a  Howard  to  the  king. 

The  house,  however,  passed  from  his  hands,  and  was  pur 
chased  by  the  provincial  government  at  the  beginning  of 
serious  work  with  the  mother  country.  After  the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,  it  was  allotted  to  General  Washington  as  his 
headquarters.  It  was  entirely  unfurnished,  but  tho  charity 
of  neighbors  iilled  it  with  necessary  furniture.  The  south 
eastern  room  upon  tho  lower  floor,  at  the  right  of  the  front 
door,  and  now  occupied  as  a  study  by  Mr.  Longfellow,  was 
devoted  to  the  same  purpose  by  Washington.  The  room 
over  it,  as  Madame  Cragie  has  already  informed  ii.»:,  was  his 
chamber.  The  room  upon  the  lower  floor,  in  tho  roar  of  the 
tftudy,  which  was  afterwards  enlarged  and  is  now  the  Poet's 
library,  was  occupied  by  tho  aids-de-camps  of  the  com- 
mander-in-chief.  And  the  southwest  room,  upon  the  lower 
jl<»or,  was  Mrs.  Washington**  drawing-room.  The  rich  old 
wood  carving  in  this  apartment  is  still  remarkable,  still  cer 
tifies  the  frequent  presence  of  fine  society.  For,  although 


LONGFELLOW.  275 

during  the  year  in.  which  Washington  occupied  the  man 
sion,  there  could  have  been  aa  little  desire  as  means  for 
gay  festivity;  yet. Washington  and  his  leading  associates 
were  ail  gentlemen — men  who  would  have  graced  the  ele 
gance  of -a  court  with  the  game  dignity  that  made  ihu 
plainness  of  a  republic  admirable.  Many  of  Washington's 
published  letters,  arc  dated  from  this  house.  And  could,  the 
walls  whisper,  we  should  hear  more  and  better  things  of 
him,  than  could  ever  be  recorded.  In  his  chamber  are 
still  the  guy -painted  tiles  peculiar  to  line  houses  of  the 
period  ;  and  upon  their  quaint  and  grotesque  images  the 
glancing  eyes  of  the  Poet's  children  now  wonderingly  linger, 
where  the  sad  and  doubtful  ones  of  Washington  must  have 
often  fallen  as  ho  meditated  the  darkness  of  the  future. 

Many  of  these  peculiarities  and  memories  of  the  mansion 
appear  in  the  Poet's  verses.  In  the  opening  of  the  poem 
**To  a  Child,"  whence  our  motto  is  taken,  the  tiles  are 
painted  anew. 

"The  lady  with  the  guy  nmcaw, 
The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  Bualmw 

With  ItcuixU'il  li ji  and  chin ; 
And,  loaning  idly  o'er  his  gate, 
Ik-neuth  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 
The  Chin*  .-«•  iiwiului  in." 

The  next  figure  that  distinctly  appears  in  the  old  house 
is  that  of  Thomas  Tracy,  a  personage  of  whom  the  house- 
hold  traditions  are  extremely  fond.  Ho  was  a  rich  man,  iii 
the  fabulous  Btyle  of  the  East;  such  a  nabob  as  Oriental 
imaginations  can  everywhere  easily  conjure,  while  practical 
experience  wonders  that  they  are  so  rare.  lie  carried  'him* 


276  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


with  a  rare  lavishness.  Servants  drank  costly  wines 
from  carved  pitchers  in  the  incredible  days  of  Thomas 
Tracy;  and  in  his  stately  mansion,  a  hundred  guest*  Bat 
down  to-bunqiiotB,  and  pledged  their  host  in  draughts  whose 
remembrance  keep  his  name  sweet,  as  royal  bodies  were 
preserved  in  wine  and  spices.  In  the  early  days  of  national 
disorder,  ho  Bent  out  privateers  to  scour  the  seas  and  bleed 
Spanish  galleons  of  their  sunniest  juices,  and  reap  gulden 
harvests  of  fruits  and  spices,  of  silks  and  satins,  from  East 
and  West  Indian  ships,  that  the  bountiful  table  of  Vassal 
House  might  not  fail,  nor  the  carousing  days  of  Thomas 
Tracy  become  credible.  Hut  these  "  spacious  times"  of  the 
large-hearted  and  large-handed  gentleman  suddenly  ended. 
The  wealthy  man  failed  ;  no  more  hundred  guests  appeared 
at  banquets;  no  more  privateers  sailed  into  Boston  Bay, 
reeking  with  riches  from  every  sjonc  ;  Spain,  the  Brazils, 
the  Indies,  no  more  rolled  their  golden  Bands  into  the 
pockets  of  Thomas  Tracy;  servants,  costly  wines,  carved 
pitchers,  all  began  to  glimmer  and  go,  and  finally  Thomas 
Tracy  'and  his  incredible  days  vanished  as  entirely  as  the 
gorgeous  pavilions  with  which  the  sun  in  setting  piles  the 
summer  west. 

Alter  this  illuminated  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  house, 
Captain  Joseph  Lee,  a  brother  of  Madame  Tracy,  appears 
in  the  annals,  but  does  not  seem  to  have  illustrated  them 
by  any  npecial  gifts  or  graces.  Tradition  remains  nilent, 
pining  for  Thomas  Tracy,  until  it  lifts  its  head  upon  the 
entry  into  the  house  of  Andrew  Cragio,  "Apothecary-General 
to  the  Northern  provincial  army,  who  amassed  a  fortune  in 
that  oitiee,  which,  like  his  great  predecessor,  ho  presently 


LONGFELLOW.  277 

loai ;  but  not  until  ho  had  built  a  bridge  over  the  Charles 
river,  connecting  Cambridge  with  Boston,  which  is  still 
known  by  his  name.  Andrew  Cragie  did  much  for  the 
house,  even  enlarging.it  to  its  present  form;  but  tradition 
id  hard  upon  him.  It  declares  that  he  was  a  huge  'man, 
heavy  and  dull ;  and  evidently  looks  upon  his  career  as  the 
high  lyric  of  Thomas  Tracy's,  muddled  into  tough  prose. 
In  the  best  and  most  prosperous  days  of  Andrew  Cragie, 
the  estate  comprised  two  hundred  acres.  Upon  the  site  of 
the  present  observatory,  not  far  from  the  mansion,  stood  a 
summer-house,  but  whether  of  any  rare  architectural  device, 
whether,  in  fact,  any  orphic  genius  of  those  days  "said"  a 
summer-house,  which,  like  that  of  Mr.  Emerson's,  only 
'•lacked  scientific  arrangement"  to  be  quite  perfect,  docs 
not  appear.  Like  the  apothecary  to  the  Northern  nrmy,  the 
bummer-house  is  gone,  as  likewise  an  aqueduct  that  brought 
water  a, quarter  of  a  mile.  Tradition,  so  enamored  of  Tracy, 
is  generous  enough  to  mention  a  dinner-party  given  by  An 
drew  Cragie  every  Saturday,  and  on  one  occasion  points  out 
peruked  and  powdered  Talleyrand  among  the  guests.  This 
betrays  the  presence  in  the  house  of  the  best  society  then 
to  be  had.  But  the  prosperous  Cragie  could  not  avoid  the 
fate  of  his  opulent  predecessor,  who  also  gave  banquets. 
Things  rushed  on  too  rapidly  for  him.  The  bridge,  aque 
duct  and  summer-house,  two  hundred  acres  and  an  en 
larged  house,  were  too  much  for  the  fortune  acquired  in 
dealing  medicaments  to  the  Northern  army.  The  a  spa 
cious  times"  of  Andrew  Cragie  also  came  to  an  end.  A 
visitor  walked  with  him  through  his  large  and  handsome 
s,  and  struck  with  admiration,  exclaimed, 


HOMES  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

"  Mr.  Cragie,  I  should  think  you  could  lose  yourself  iu 
all  this  spaciousness." 

"  Mr.  "  (tradition  has  forgotten  the  name)  said 

the  hospitable^  and  ruined  host,  "  I  have  lost  myself  in 
it/* — -andi  we  do  not  find  him  again. 

After  his  disappearance  Mrs.  Cragie,  bravely  swallow 
ing  the  risings  of  pride,  and, still  revealing  in  her  character 
and  demeanor  the  worthy  mistress  of  a  noble  nunsion,  let 
rooms.  Edward  Everett  resided  here  just  after  his  mar 
riage,  aitd  while  still  Professor  in  the  college  of  which  he 
was  afterward  President.  Willard  Phillips,  Jared  Sparks, 
now  the  head  of  the  University,  and  Joseph  E.  Worcester, 
the  Lexicographer,  have  all  resided  here,  sometimes  sharing 
the  house  With  Mrs.  Cragie,  and,  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Worces 
ter,  occupying  it  jointly  with  Mr.  Longfellow  when  the  grave 
old  lady  removed  her  stately  turban  for  the  last  time. 

The  Cragie  House  is  now  the  Poet's,  and  has  again  ac 
quired  a  distinctive  interest  in  history.  It  was  in  Portland, 
Muiucriu  the  year  1807,  and  in  an  old  square  wooden  house 
.upon  the  edge  of  the  sea,  that  Longfellow  was  born.  The 
old  houso  stood  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  separated 
only  by  a  street  from  the  water.  In  the  lower  story  there  is 
now  a  shop,  —  a  bookseller's,  doubtless,  —  muses  imagina 
tion, —  so  that,  the  same  house  which  gave  a  singer  to  the 
world  may  oiler  to  the  world  his  songs  to  justify  its  pride  in 
him.  lie  graduated  at  I3runswick  with  Hawthorne,  whom 
then  the  Poet  knew  only  as  a  shy  youth  in  a  bright-buttoned 
coat,  Hitting  across  the  college  grounds.  During  his  college 
day*  ho  wooed  the  muses,  as  all  students  woo;  and  in  the 
United  States  Literary  Gazette,  then  published  in  .Boston, 


LONGFELLOW.  279 

the  world  learned  how  his  suit  prospered.  In  1826  Longfel 
low  first  visited  Europe.  lie  loitered  through  France,  Spain, 
Italy,  Germany,  Holland  and  England,  and  returned  to  Amer 
ica  in  1S21).  Appointed  Professor  in  his  alma  mater,  he  der 
voted  himself  to  the  Scholar's  life,  poring  long  and  earnestly 
over  the  literature  of  lands  which  ho  knew  so  well  and  truly 
that  their  literature  lived  for  him  and  was  not  a  hard  hiero-% 
glyph  only.  During  these  quiet  professional  years  he  con 
tributed  articles  to  the  North  American  Review  —  a  proceed 
ing  not  unprecedented  among  New  England  scholars,  and  in 
which  Emerson,  the  Everetts,  and  all  the  more  illustrious  of 
the  literary  men  of  the  north,  have  been  participants.  The 
forms  of  foreign  travel  gradually  grouped  themselves  in  his 
mind.  Vivid  pictures  of  European  experience,  such  as 
illuminate  the  memory  of  every  young  and  romantic  trav 
eller,  constantly  flashed  along  his  way,  and  he  be£an  to 
retrace  them  in  words,  that  others  might  know,  according 
tii  the  German  proverb,  that  "behind  the  mountains  there 
are  men  also." 

In  tliis  way  commenced  the  publication  of  "Outre  !Mer, 
or  Sketches  from  Beyond  Sea,"  a  work  of  foreign  reminis 
cences,. —  tales  and  reveries  of  the  life  peculiar  to  Europe. 
It  was  published,  originally,  in  numbers,  by  Samuel  Column, 
a  townsman  of  the  author's.  Like  the  Sketch  Hook,  it  was 
issued  whenever  a  number  was  prepared-,  but  unlike  the 
author  of  the  Sketch  Book,  the  Professor  could  not  write  as 
his  .motto,  "  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  pro 
vide  for;"  for  in  the  midst  of  the  quiet  professorial  days, 
still  a  very  young  man,  the  Poet  was  married,— -a  fleeting 
joy  ending  by  the  death  of  his  wife  in  Rotterdam  in.  1835. 


280  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN     AUTHORS. 

In  Brunswick,  also,  and  ut  this  time,  ho  made  tho  translation 
of  tho  odo  upon  "  Coplas  do  Manrique,"  by  his  son  Don  Joze 
Manricjue,  a  rich,  mournfully-rolling  Spanish  poem.  The, 
earlier  verses  of  the  young  man  had  made  their 'mark.  In 
Hi'hool  reading-hooks,  and  in  volumes  of  elegant  extracts, 
and  preserved  in  many  a  daintily  ribboned  manuscript,  tho 
/•'April  Day,"  "  Woods  in  Winter,"  u  Hymn  of  the  Moravian 
Nuns  at  Bethlehem,"  k<  Burial  of  the  Minnisink,"  and  others, 
were  readily  found.  As  yet  the  Poet  was  guiltless  of  a  vol 
ume,  but  his  name  was  known,  and  upon  the  credit  of  a  few 
fugitive  pieces  he  was  mentioned  first  after  the  monopoliz 
ing  masters  of  American  verse. 

In  the  year  1SI35  he  received  the  appointment  of  Profes- 
fior  iu  Harvard  College,  Cambridge,  which  lie  accepted,  but 
sailed  for  Europe  again  iii  the  course  of  the  your.  Upon 
leaving  he  committed  the  publication  of  u  Outre  Mer  "  to 
the  Harpers  in  New- York,  who  issued  the  entire  work  in 
two  volumes.  The  second  European  visit  was  confined,  to 
the  north  of  Europe,  Denmark,  England,  Sweden,  Germany, 
a  long  pause  in  Holland,  and  Paris.  .  In  tho  autumn  of  183<J 
he  returned,  and  in  December  of  the  same  year  removed  to 
Cambridge  to  reside.  Here,  -again,  'tiro- North  American  Ko- 
view  figures  a  little  in  the  literary  life  of  tho  Poet,  lie  wrote 
hevcral  articles  for  it  during  the  leisure  of  his  engagements 
as  Professor  of  'Modern  Literature)  and,  at  length,  as  we 
have  seen,  one  calm  afternoon  in  the  KUiiimcr  oi'  IS.'JT, 
Longfellow  first  took  lodgings  in  the  Cragio  House,  with 
which  the  maturity  and  extent  of  his  reputation  was  to  be 
so  closely  associated. 
,  Some  wan  ghost  of  Thomas  Tracy,  lordly  with  lace  and 


• 

>' 

i  S 


/*  Al  <!  yi'i  '->\-  %  -      «       •  '-' '-  •  it  •* 

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LONGFELLOW.  281 

gracious  in  perfumed  pomp,  surely  the  Poet  saw  advancing, 
holding  in  hia  hand  some  one  of  those  antique  carved  pitch 
ers  brimmed  with  that  costly  wine,  and  exhorting  him  to 
drain  potent  draughts,  that  not  by  him  should  the  lame  of 
the  incredible  days  be  tarnished,  but  that,  as  when  a  hundred 
guests  sat  at  the  banquet,  and  a  score  of  full-freighted  ships 

arrived  for  Thomas  Tracy,  the  traveller  should  say, 

•  'f 

"  A  purple  light  thin.-i  over  all, 
It  beams  from  tho  Luck  of  EJenhull." 

The  vow  was  pledged,  and  now  under  the  few  elms  that 
remain  of  those  which  the  fellow-worms  of  Mrs.  (Vagie 
blighted,  tho  ghost  of  Thomas  Tracy  walks  appeased. 

In  his  still  southeastern  upper  chamber,  in  which  "NViish- 
irigton  had  also  slept,  the  Poet  wrote  "Hyperion1*  in  the 
years  1838-9.  It  is  truly  a  romance,  a  beaker  of  the  wine 
of  youth,  and  was  instantly  received  as  such  by  the  public. 
That  public  was,,  and  must  always  be,  of  the  young.  No 
book  had  appeared  which  so  admirably  expressed  tho  ro 
mantic  experience  of  every  poetic  young  mind  in  Europe, 
.and  an  experience  which  will  be  constantly  renewed.  -Prob 
ably  no  American  book  had  ever  so  passionate  a  popularity 
as  "Hyperion."  It  was  published  in  the  summer  of  18«'J9  by 
.tvolman,  who  had  then  removed  to  New- York,  but  at  the 
time  of  publication  he  failed,  and  it  was  undertaken  by 
John  Owen,  tho  University  publisher  in  Cambridge.  It  is  a 
singular  tribute  to  the  integrity  of  the  work,  and  a  marked 
illustration  of  the  peculiarity  of  American  development,  that 
Horace  Greeley,  famous  as  a  political  journalist,  and  inti 
mately  associated  with  every  kind  of  positive  and  practical 


282  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHOIiS. 

movement,  was  among  tlio  very  earliest  of  the  warmest  lovers 
of  "Hyperion."  It  shows  our  national  eclecticism  of  sen 
timent  and  sense,  which  is  constantly  betraying  itself  in  a 
thousand  other  ways. 

Hero,  too,  in  the  southeast  chamber,  were  written  the 
"  Voices  of  the  Night,"  published  in  1840.  Some  of  the 
more  noted,  such  as  the  "  Psalm  of  Lite,"  had  already  ap 
peared  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine.  Strangely  enough 
as  a  fact  in  American  literary  history,  the  fame  of  the 
romance  was  even  surpassed,  and  one  of  the. most  popu 
lar  books  of  the  day  was  Longfellow's  Poems.  They  were 
read  every  where  by  every  one,  and  were  republished  and 
have  continued  to  be  republished  in  England  and  in  vari 
ous  other  countries.  The  secret  of  his  popularity  as  a  poet 
is  probably  that  of  all  similar  popularity,  namely,  the  fact 
that  his  poetry  expresses  a  universal  sentiment  in  the  sim 
plest  arid  most  melodious  manner.  Each  of  his  most  noted 
poems  is  the  song  of  a  feeling  common  to  every  mind  in 
moods  into  which  every  mind  is  liable  to  fall.  Thus  "  A 
Psalm  of  Life,"  "Footsteps  of  Angels,"  "To  the  Kiver 
Charles,"  "Excelsior,"  "The  Bridge,"  "A  Gleam  of  Sun 
shine,"  "The  Day  is  done,"  "The  Old  Clock  on  the  Staiiv," 
"The  Arrow  and  the  Song,"  "The  Fire  of  Driftwood," 
"Twilight,"  "The.  open  "Window,"  are  all  most  adequate 
and  inexpressibly  delicate  renderings  of  quite  universal 
emotions.  There  is  a  humanity  in  them  which  is  irresist 
ible  in  the  fit  measures  to  which  they  are  wedded.  If  some 
elegiac  poets  have  strung  rosaries  of  tears,  there  is  a  weak 
ness  of  wo  iii  their  verses  which  repels ;  but  the  quiet,  pen 
sive  thought,  —  the  twilight  of  the  mind,  in  which  the  little 


LONG*1  EL  LOW.  •          283 

facts  of  life  arc  saddened  in  view  of  their  relation  to  the 
eternal  laws,  time  and  change, — -this  is  the  meditation  and 
mourning  of  every  manly  heart;  and  this  is  the  alluring  and 
liernmnunt  charm  of  Longfellow's  poetry. 

In  1842  the  .Ballads  and  other  Poems  were  published, 
and  in  the  same  year  the  Poet  sailed  again  for  Europe.  He 
passed  the  summer  upon  the  Rhine,  residing  some  time  at 
Boppart,  where  he  saw  much 'of  the  ardent  young  German 
poet  Frciligratli.  He  returned  alter  a  few  months,  compos 
ing  the  poems  on  slavery  during  the  homeward  passage. 
Upon  landing,  he  found  the  world  drunken  with  the  grace 
of  Funny  Ellsler,  and  learned,  from  high  authority,  that  her 
saltations  were  more  than  poetry,  whereupon  he  wrote  the 
fragrant  "Spanish  Student," which  smells  of  the  utmost 
South,  and  was  a  strange  blossoming  for  the  garden  of 
Thomas  Tracy. 

In  1843  Longfellow  bought  the  house.  The  two  hundred 
ac-ivs  of  Andrew  Cragie  had  shrunken  to  eight.  But  the 
meadow-land  in  front  sloping  to  the  river  was  secured  by 
the  Poet,  who  thereby  secured  also  the  wide  and  winning 
prospect,  the  broad  green  reaches,  and  the  gentle  Milton 
.hills.  And  if,  sitting  in  the  most  midsummer  moment  of 
his  life,  he  yielded  to  the  persuasions  of  the  fciren  land 
scape  before  him,  and  the  vague  voices  of  the  ancestral 
"house,  and  dreamed  of  a  fate  fairer  than  any  Vassal,  or 
Tracy,  or  Cragie  knew,  even  when  they  mused  upon  the 
destiny  of  the  proudest  son  of  their  house,  —  was  it  a  dream 
too  dear,  a  poem  impossible  1 

In  184(5  the  "Belfry  of  Bruges"  collection  was  published, 
in  1S47  the  "Evungeline,"  in  1850  "Seaside  and  Fireside," 


284  HOMES    OF    AUEUICAN    AUTHORS. 

and  HI  1851  the  last  and  Lost  of  hid  works,  up  to  the  present 
time— "The  Golden  Legend."  In  this  poem  he  has  obeyed 
the  kigbest  humanity  of  the  poet's  culling,  by  revealing, — 
which  alone  the  poet  can,  —  not  coldly,  but  in  the  glowing 
and  affluent  reality  of  life,  this  truth,  that  the  samo  human 
heart  has  throbbed  in  all  ages  and  under  all  circumstances, 
and  that  the  devotion  of  Love  is  for  ever  and  from  the  be 
ginning,  the  true  salvation  of  man.  To  this  great  and  fun 
damental  value  of  the  poem  is  added  all  the  dramatic  pre 
cision  of  the  most  accomplished  artist.  The  art  is  so  subtly 
concealed  that  it  is  not  suspected.  The  rapid  reader  ex 
claims,  "Why!  there  is  no  modern  blood  in  this;  it  might 
have  been  exhumed  in  a  cloister."  Yes,  and  there  is  the' 
triumph  of  art.  So  entirely  are  the  intervening  years  anni 
hilated' that  their  existence  is  not  suspected.  Taking  us  by 
the  hand,  as  Virgil  Dante,  the  Poet  introduces  us  directly  to 
the  time  he  chooses,  and  we  are  at  owce  flushed  and  wanned 
by  the  samo  glorious  and  eternal  heart  which  is  also  the 
light  of  our  day.  This  is  the  stroke  which  makes  all  times 
.and  nations  kin,  and  which,  in  any  individual  instance,  cer 
tifies  the  poetic  power. 

'  The  library  of  the  Poet  is  the  long  northeastern  room 
upon  the  lower  floor.  It  opens  upon  the  garden,  which 
retains  still  the  quaint  devices  of  an  antique  design,  har 
monious  with  the  house.  The  room  is  surrounded  with 
handsome  book-cases,  and  one  stands  also  between  two  Co 
rinthian  columns  at  one  end,  which  impart  dignity  and  rich 
ness  to  the  apartment.  A  little  table  by  the  northern  win 
dow,  looking  upon  the  garden,  is  the  usual  seat  of  the 
Poet.  A  bust  or  two,  the  rich  carvings  of  the  cases,  the 


LONGFELLOW.  285 

spaciousness  of  the  room,  a  leopard-skin  lying  upon  the 
floor,  and  a  few  shelves  of  strictly  literary  curiosities,  reveal 
not  only  the  haunt  of  the  elegant  scholar  and  poet,  but  the 
favorite  resort  of  the  family  circle.  But  the  northern  gloom 
of  a  New  England  winter  is  intolerant  of  this  serene  delight, 
this  beautiful  domesticity,  and  urges  the  inmates  to  tho 
Hiudk-r  room  in  front  of  the  house  communicating  with  tin* 
library,  and  the  study  of  General  Washington.  •  This  is  still 
distinctively  "the  study,"  as  the  rear  room  is  "the  library/' 
Hooks  are  here,  and  all  the  graceful  detail  of  an  elegant 
Household,  and  upon  the  walls  hang  crayon  portraits  of 
Emerson,  Simmer,  and  Hawthorne. 

Emerging  into  the  hall,  the  eyes  of  the  enamored  visitor 
fall  upon  the  massive  old  staircase  with  the  clock  upon  the 
landing.  Directly  he  hears  a  singing  in  his  mind : 

"Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street, 
Stand*  the  old  fuehiotu-d  country-scat, 
Across  ita  antique  |>ortico 
Tull  |H»i>lar-trees  their  shadows  throw, 
And  from  ltd  station  in  the  hall 
An  an. -it  nt  timepiece  r-a\>  to*  all, 
'  For  ever  —  never ! 
Never  —  for  ever ! ' " 

Hut  he  docs  not  see  the  particular  clock  of  the  poem,  which 
htood  upon  another  staircase  in  another  quaint  old  man 
siou,  —  although  the  verse  truly  belongs  to  all  old  clocks 
in  all  old  country-seats,  just  as  the  "Village  Blacksmith" 
and  his  smithy  are  not  alone  the  stalwart  man  and  dingy 
>li«»p  under  the  "spreading  chestnut-tree"  which  the  Prefer- 


266  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHOR 3. 

. 

so^  daily  passes  upon  his  way  to  his  college  duties,  but  be 
long  wherever  a  smithy  stands.  Through  the  meadows  in 
front  flows  the  placid  Charles. 

"River I  that  in  silence  wuulest 

Thro*  the  nnradow^  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  fiudoat 
In  the  bosom  of  the  &ea  1 " 

So  calmly,  likewise,  flows  the  Poet's  lite.  No  longer  in  his 
reveries  can  mingle  more  than  the  sweet  melancholy  of  the 
old  house's  associations.  Xo  tradition  records  a  ghost  in 
those  ghostly  chambers.  As  if  all  sign  of  thcni  should  pass 
away,  not  only  Mrs.  Cragie'a  fellow-worms  destroyed  the 
elms  in  front,  but  a  noble  linden-tree  in  the  garden,  faded 
as  she  failed,  and  languished  into  decay  after  her  death. 
But  the  pensive  grandeur  of  an  old  mansion  sheds  a  softer 
than  the  "purple  light"  of  the  luck  of  Edenhall  upon  the 
Poet's  fancies  and  his  page.  lie  who  has  written  the  Gold 
en  Legend  knows,  best  of  all,  the  reality  and  significance 
of  that  life  in  the  old  'Cragie  House,  whose  dates,  except 
for  this  slight  sketch,  had  almost  dropped  from  history. 
And  while  the  exquisite  music  of  this  poem  of  our  author's 
lingers  in  the  heart  of  the  reader,  as  he  turns  from  this 
page,  will  he  hot  seem  to  be  sitting,  on  on.e  of  the  dreamy 
summer  afternoons,  in  the  old  chamber  where  so  often  the 
young.  Poet  sat  lost  in  the  luxury  of  reverie,  and  hearing 
with  intoxicating  sadness  the  ghosts  of  tunes  long  since  for 
gotten,  which  the  turbaned  and  trembling  widow  of  Andrew 
jCragie  vaguely  played  upon  the  harpsichord  : 


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LONGFELLOW.  -287 

The  old  house  by  the  Linden* 

Stood  silent  iu  the  shade, 
And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 

The  light  and  dm. low  played. 

•  I  *aw  the  nursery  window 

Wide  open  to  the  air ; 
Uut  the  face*  of  the  children, 
They  were  no  longer  there. 

"The  Urge  Newfoundland  house-dog 

Was  standing  by  the  door ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmate* 

Who  would  return  n»  more. 

"They  walked  not  undrr  the  Lindens, 

Tln-y  played  not  in  the  hull ; 
But  bhudow,  and  silence,  and  suduett, 
Wore  hanging  over  all. 

"The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 

With  awcft,  familiar  tone  ; 
Hut  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone! 

"And  the  boy  that  walked  boaide  in«, 

He  could  not  underttand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah!  closer, 
I  pre*»od  hi-  warm,  ^>tt  hand.*1 


Nathaniel  $atotbonu. 


19 


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HAWTHORNE. 


HAWTITORNE  lias  himself  drawn  the  picture  of  the 
"Old  Manao  "  iu  Concord.  Ho  haa  given  to  it  that 
quiet  richness  of  coloring  which  ideally  belongs  to  an  old 
country  mansion.  It  seemed  so  fitting  a  residence  for  one 
•who  loves  to  explore  the  twilight  of  antiquity  —  and  the 
gloomier  the  Letter — that  the  visitor,  among  the  felicities 
of  whoso  life  was  included  the  freedom  of'  the  Manse,  cotdd 
nut  but  fancy  that  our  author's  eyes  first  saw  the  daylight 
enchanted  by  the  slumberous  orchard  behind  the  house,  or 


292  HOMES    OF    AMKKICAN    AUTUOltB. 

tranquillized  into  twilight  by  the  spacious  avenue  in  front. 
Tin;  character  of  his  imagination,  and  the  golden  gloom  of 
its  blossoming,  completely  harmonize  with  the  rusty,  gable- 
roofed  old  house  upon  the  river  side,  and  the  reader  of  his 
books  would  bo  sure  that  his  boyhood  and  youth  knew  no 
othei  friends  than  the  dreaming  river,  and  the  melancholy 
meadows  and  drooping  foliage  of  its  vicinity. 

Since  the  reader,  however,  would  greatly  mistake  if  he 
fancied  this,  in  good  sooth,  the  ancestral  halls  of  the  Haw- 
thornes,  —  the  genuine  Ilawthorne-den,  —  he  will  be  glad  to 
save  the  credit  of  his  fancy  by  knowing  that  it  was  here 
our  author's  bridal  tour,  —  which  commenced  in  Boston, 
then  tlirce  hours  away,  —  ended,  and  his  niu'.i'ivd  life  be 
gan.  Here,  also,  his  iirst  child  was  born,  and  here  tho.se 
sad  and  silver  mosses  accumulated  upon  his  fancy,  from 
which  he  heaped'  so  soil  a  bed  J jr.  our  dreaming.  "  Be 
tween  two  tall  gate-posts  of  .tough  hewn  stone  (the  gate 
itself  having  fallen  from  its  hinges  at  home  unknown  epoch) 
we  beheld  the  gray  front  of  the  old  parsonage,  terminating 
the  vista  of  an  avenue  of  black  ash  trees."  It  was  a  pleasant 
tip  ring  day  in  the  year  IS-l.'J,  and  as  they  entered  the  house, 
nosegays  of  fresh  flowers,  arranged  by  friendly  ha'uds,  wel 
comed  them  to  Concord  and  Summer. 

The  dark-haired  man,  who  led  his  wife  along  the  avenue 
that  afternoon,  had  been  recently  an  otlicer  of  the  customs 
ill  Iroston,  before  which  he  had  led  a  solitary  life  in  Salem. 
Graduated  with  Longfellow  at  Bowdoin  College,  in  Maine, 
he  htul  lived  a  hermit  in  respectable  Salem,  an  absolute 
ivcluse  even  from  his  own  family,  walking  out  by  night 
iiiid  writing  wild  tales  by  day,  most  of  which  were  burnt 


HAWTHORNE.  293 

iii  his  bachelor  tire,  and  some  of  which,  in  newspapers, 
•  magazines  uiul  annual*,  led  u  wandering,  uncertain,  am! 
mostly  unnoticed  life.  Those  tales,  among  this  elans,  which 
\\nv  attainable, he  collected  into  a  small  volume,  and  appris 
ing  the  world  that  they  were  "twice-told,"  sent  them  forth 
anew  to  make  their  own  way,  in  the  year  1S41.  But  he 
piped  to  the  world,  and  it  did  not  bing.  lie  wept  to  it,  and 
it  did  not  mourn.  The  book,  however,  as  all  good  hooks  do. 
made  its  way  into  various  hearts.  Yet  the  few  pcnetrant 
minds  which  recognized  a  remarkable  power  and  a --'method 
of  strange  fascination  in  tke  stories,  did  not  make  the  public, 
nor  influence  the  public  mind.  "I  was,"  he  says  in  the  lust 
edition  of  these  tales,  "the  most  unknown  author  in  Amer 
ica."  Full  of  glancing  wit,  of  tender  satire,  of  exquisite 
natural  description,  of  subtle  and  strange  analysis  of  human 
1  life,  darkly  passionate  and  weird,  they  yet  floated  imhaijed 
barques  upon  the  sea  of  publicity, — unhailed,  but  laden  and 
gleaming  at  every  eivvice  with  the  true  treasure  of  Cathay. 
Bancroft,  then  Collector  in  Boston,  prompt  to  rccogui/.e  and 
to  honor  talent,  made  the  dreaming  story-teller  a  surveyor 
in  the  custoin-houhe,  thus  opening  to  him  a  new  range  of 
experience.  From  the  society  of  phantoms  he  stepped  upon 
Long  Wharf  and  plumply  confronted  Captain  Cuttle  and 
l)irck  Hatteraick.  It  was  no  less  romance  to  our  author. 
There  is  no  greater  error  of  those  who  are  called  '"practical 
men,"  than  the  supposition  that  life  is,  or  can  be,  other  than 
a  dream  to  a  dreamer.  Shut  him  up  in  a  counting-room,  bar 
ricade  him  with  bales  of  merchandise  and  limit  his  library  to 
;he  ledger  and  cashrbook,  and  his  prospect  to 'the  neighboring 
.-igns  ;  talk  "Bills  receivable"  and  "Sundries  Dr.  to  cash '' 


294         aoMKs  OF  AMKKIOAN  AUTUOUS. 

to  him  for  ever,  and  you  are  only  a  very  amusing  or  very 
annoying  phantora  to  him.  The  merchant-prince  might  as 
well  hope  to  make  himself  n  poet,  us  the  poet  a  practical  or 
*•  practicable  man.  Ife  has  laws  to  ohey  not  at  all  the  le^ 
stringent  because  men  of  a  different  temperament  refuse  to 
acknowledge  them,  and  he  i?>  held  ton  loyalty  quite  beyond 
their  conception. 

So  Captain  Cuttle  and  Dirck  Ilatteraick  were  a.s  pleasant 
figures  to  our  author  in  the  picture  of  life,  a.s  any  others,  lie 
weni  daily  upon  the  vessels,  looked,  and  listened,  and  learn 
ed, — was  a  favorite  of  the  sailors,  as  such  men  always  are, 
did  his  work  faithfully,  and  having  dreamed  his  dream  upon 
Long  "Wharf,  was  married  and  slipped  up  to  the  Old  MaiiM\ 
and  a  new  chapter  in  the  romance.  It  opened  in  uthe  most 
delightful  little  nook  of  a  study  that  ever  offered  its  snug 
seclusion  to  a  scholar."  Of  the  three  years  in  the  Old 
Manse  the  prelude  to  the  "  Mosses  "  is  the  most  perfect 
history,  and  of  the  quality  of  those  years  the  "  Mosses  " 
themselves  are  sufficient  proof.  They  were  mostly  written 
in  the  little  study,  and  originally  published  in  the  DMIIO- 
cratic  lievicw,  then  edited  by  Hawthorne's  friend  O'Sul- 
livan. 

To  the  inhabitants  of  Concord,  however,  our  author  was 
as  much  a  phantom  and  a  fable  as  the  old  pastor  of  the 
parish,  dead  half  a  century  before,  and  whose  taded  portrait 
in  the  attic  was  gradually  rejoining  its  original  in  native 
dust.  The  gate,  fallen  from  its  lunges  in  a  remote  antiquity, 
was  never  re-hung.  i%Tlie  wheel-track  leading  to  the  do.»r" 
remained  still  overgrown  with  grass.  Xo  bold  villager  e\er 
invaded  the  sleep  of  "  the  glimmering  shadows"  in  the 


HAWTHORNE.  295 

avenue.  At  evening  no  lights  gleamed  from  the  windows^ 
Scarce  once  in  many  months  did  the  single  old  knobbv- 
faeed  coachman  at  the  railroad  bring  n  faro  to  w  Mr.  Haw 
thorne's."  "  h  there  anybody  in  the  old  house?*'  sobbed 
the  old  ladies  in  despair,  imbibing  tea  of  a  livid  green. 
That  knocker,  which  evory  body  had  enjoyed  the  right  of 
lilting  to  summon  the  good  old  Pastor,  no  temerity  now 
dared  to  touch.  Heavens  !  what  if  the  figure  in  the  mouldy 
portrait  should  peer,  in  answer,  over  the  eaves,  and  shake 
ftolenmly  his  decaying  surplice !  Nay,  what  if  the  myste 
rious  man  himself  should  answer  the  suminons  and  come  to 
the  door!  It  is  easy  to  summon  spirits,  —  but  if  they  come  ( 
Collective  Concord,  mowing  in  the  river  meadows,  embraced 
the  better  part  of  valor  and  left  the  knocker  untouched.  A 
cloud  of  romance  suddenly  fell  out  of  the  heaven  of  fancy 
and  enveloped  the  Old  Manse  : — 

"  in  uniting  Ihe  bt-urdetl  barley 
The  JvajH-r  iva|>ing  lut«?  uiul  early" 

did  not  glance  more  wistfully  toward  the  island  of  Shalnt? 
and  its  mysterious  lady  than  the  reapers  of  Concord  rye 
looked  at  the  Old  Manse  and  wondered  over  its  inmate. 

Sometimes,  in  the  forenoon,  a  darkly  clad  figure  wa*  seen 
in  the  little  garden-plot  putting  in  corn  or  melon  seed,  and 
gravely  hoeing.  It  was  a  brief  apparition.  The  farnu-r  pac 
ing  toward  town  and  seeing  the  solitary  cultivator,  lost  his 
faith  in  the  fact  and  believed  he  had  dreamed,  when,  upon 
returning,  he  saw  no  sign  of  life,  except,  possibly,  upon  some 
Monday,  the  ghostly  skirt  of  a  shirt  flapping  spectrally  in  the 
distant  orchard.  Day  dawned  and  darkened  over  the  lonely 


296  HOMES    OF    AMK1UCAX    AUTHORS. 


Summer  with  "buds  and  bird-voices"  caaie  ringing 
in  from  the  South,  and  clad  the  old  ash  tree*  in  deeper  green. 
the  Old  Manso  in  proibundcr  mystery.  (jorgeoua  uiitniaii 
came  to  visit  the  btory-teller  ia  his  little  western  study,  ami 
departing,  wept  rainbows  among  his  trees.  Winter  impa 
tiently  swept  down  tho  hill  opposite,  rilling  the  trees  of  each 
lu*t,  clinging  hit  of  Summer,  as  it*  thrusting  aside  opposing 
harrior*  and  determined  to  seureh  the  mystery.  Hut  hi- 
white  rohes  ilouted  around  the  Old  Manse,  ghostly  as  th 
decaying  surplice  of  the  old  Pastor's  portrait,  and  ia'th 
Mm\vy  keehision  of  "Whiter  the  mystery  was  as  akysterioa> 
a?>  ever. 

Occasionally  Kaiersua,  or  Kllory  Channing,  or  Henry 
Tliore;iU,  —  t»ome  1'oet,  as  once  AVhiUier,  jouraeying  to  tin- 
Merrimac,  or  an  old  llrook  Farmer  who  remembered  Mih*.- 
Covcrdalej  with  Arcadian  sympathy,  —  went  down  the  ave 
nue  and  disappeared  in  the  house.  Sometimes  a  close 
observer,  had  he  been  aaibushed  among  the  long  grasse* 
of  the  orchard,  might  have  seen  the  host  and  one  of  hi? 
guests  emerging  at  the  back  door  and  sauntering  to  the 
riverside,  step  into  the  boat,  and  iloat  oil'  until  they  faded 
in  the  shadow.  The  spectacle  Would  not  have  lessened  the 
romance.  If  it  were  afternoon,  —  one  of  the  spectrally 
sunny  afternoons  which  often  bewitch  that  region,  —  he 
would  be  only  the  more  convinced  that  there  was  Home- 
thing  inexplicable  in  tho  whole  matter  of  this  man  whom' 
nobody  knew,  who  was  never  once  seen  at  town-meeting, 
and  concerning  whoai  it  was  whispered  that  he  did  not 
constantly  attend  church  all  day,  although  he  occupied 
the  reverend  parsonage  of  the  village,  and  had  nnnica>- 


1IAWTHOUNK.  29tf 

wed  acres  of  manuscript  sermons  in  his  attic,  beside  the 
nearly  extinct  portrait  of  an  utterly  extinct  clergyman. 
Mrs.  Kadclitlc  and  Monk  Lewis  were  nothing  to  thU;  ami 
the  awe-stricken  observer,  if  lie  could  creep  safely  out  of  the 
l')>ig  grass,  did  not  fail  to  do  so  quietly,  fortifying  hi*  courage 
by  remembering  stories  of  the  genial  humanity  of  the  la>t 
old  Pastor  who  inhabited  the  Manse,  and  who  lor  tifty  years 
was  the  bland  and  beneficent  Pope  of  Concord.  A  genial, 
gracious  old  man,  whose  memory  is  yet  sweet  in  the  village, 
and  who.  wedded  to  the  grave  traditions  of  NewT  England 
theology,  believed  of  his  young  relative  Waldo  Emerson.,  a^ 
MUs  Flighty,  touching  her  forehead,  said 'of  her  landlord, 
that  he  was  *i  M,  quite  w,"  but  was  proud  to  love  in  him 
the  hereditary  integrity  of  noble  ancestors. 

This  old  gentleman,  —  an  eminent  ligure  in  the  history  of 
the  Manse,  and  in  all  reminiscences  of  Concord,  —  partook 
sufHciently  of  mundane  weaknesses  to  betray  his  mortality, 
Hawthorne  describes  him  watching  the  battle  of  Concord, 
from  his  study  window.  Hut  when  the  uncertainty  of  that 
•dark  moment  had  so  happily  resulted,  and  the  first  battle 
ground  of  the  revolution  had  become  a  spot  of  hallowed  and 
patriotic  consideration,  it  was  a  pardonable  pride  in  the  good 
old  man  to  order  his  servant,  whenever  there  was  company, 
to  assist  him  in  reaping  the  glory  due  to  the  owner  of  a  spot 
"  so  sacred.  Accordingly,  when  home  reverend  or  distinguish" 
ed  guest  Fat  with  the  Pastor  in  his  little  parlor,  or,  of  a  sum 
mer  evening,  at  the  hospitable  door  under  the  trees,  Jere 
miah  or  Nicodemus,  the  cow-boy,  would  deferentially  ap 
proach  and  inquire,— 

"  Into  what  pasture  shall  I  turn  the  cow  to-night,  Sir?'* 


298  HOMES    OF,AMKKICAK    AUTHOUS. 

And  the  old  gentleman  would  audibly  reply : 
k<  Into  the  battle-field,  Nieodemus,  into  the  battle-iield  !  " 
Then  naturally  followed  wonder,  inquiry,  a  walk  in  the 
twilight  to  the  rive* -bank,  the  old  go  ntlemanV  story,  the 
corresponding  respect  of  the  listening  visitor,  and  the  conse 
quent  quiet  complacency  and  harmless  satisfaction  in  the 
clergyiriairs  bosom.  That  throb  of  pride  was  the  one  .drop 
of  peculiar  advantage  which  the  Pastor  distilled  from  the 
revolution,  lie  could  not  but  fancy  that  ho  had  a  hand 
iu  B'O  famous  a  deed  accomplished  upon  land  now  his  own, 
and  demeaned  himself,  accordingly,  with  continental  dig 
nity, 

Tne  pulpit,  however,  was  his  especial  sphere.  There  he 
reigned  supreme  ;  there  he  exhorted,  rebuked  ami  advised, 
as  in  the  days  of  Mather.  There  he  inspired  that  profound 
reverence,  of  which  he  was  so  proud,  ami  which  induced  the 
matrons  of  the  village,  when  he  was  coming  to  make  a  visit, 
to  bedizen  the  children  in  their  Sunday  suits,  to  parade  the 
best  tea-pot,  and  to  oiler  the  most  capacious  chair.  In  the 
pulpit  he  delivered  every  thing  with  the  pompous  cadence  of 
the  elder  New  England  clergy,  and  a  sly. joke-  is  told  at  the 
expense  of  his  even  temper,  that  on  one  occasion,  when  lof- 
.ily  reading  the  hymn,  he  encountered  a  blot  upon  the  page 
quite  obliterating  the  word,  but  without  losing  the  cadence, 
ulthough  in  a  very  vindictive  tone  at  the  truant  word,  or  the 
culprit  who  erased  it,  —  he  finished  the  reading  as  follows: 

"ll.-  MIS  iij'i.u  hU  throne,  al>ovo, 

Alt*  ii-Hiii!  angcld  1»1  «•-.-, 

'While  Justice,  Merey,  Truth, — uiul  another  word  which  id  blotted  out, 
e  lii.->  princely  drc**,*1 


HAWTHORNE.  290 

Wo  linger  around  tho  Old  Manse  and  it*  occupants  a* 
fondly  as  Hawthorne,  but  no  more  fondly  than  all  who  have 
been  unco  within  the  influence  of  it*  spell.  Tlvere  glhmncr 
iu  my  memory  a  lew  hazy  days,  of  a  tranquil  and  half  pen- 
Mve  character,  which  I  am  conscious  were  passed  in  and 
jiruund  the  house,  and  their  pensive  ness  I  know  to  bo  only 
that  touch  of  twilight  which  inhered  in  the  house  and  all 
ils  associations.  In-side  the  few  chance  visitors  I  havt 
named,  there  were  cily  friends,  occasionally,  figure*  quitr 
unknown  to  the  village,  who  came  preceded  by  the  steam 
shriek  of  the  locomotive,  were  dropped  at-  the  gate-post*, 
and  were  seen  no  more.  The  owner  was  as  much  a  vagmi 
name  to  me  as  to  any  one. 

I  hiring  Hawthorne's  tirst  year's  residence  in  Concord, 
1  had  driven  up  with  some  friends  to  an  esthetic.  te;i  at 
Mr.  'Kmcrson's.  It  was  in  the  winter,  and  a  great  wood 
lire  blamed  upon  the  hospitable  hearth.  There  wire  vari 
ous  men  and  women  of  note  assembled,  and  I,  who  li*- 
te.ncd  attentively  to  all  the  line  things  that  were  K»id,  was 
tor  Bome  time  scarcely  aware  of  a  man  who  sat  upon  the 
edge  of  the  circle,  a  little  withdrawn,  his  head  slightly 
thrown  forward  upon  his  breast,  and  his  bright  eyes  clearly 
.•burning  under  his  black  brow.  As  I  drifto-l  down  tin- 
stivain  of  talk,  this  person,  who  tat  silent  as  a  ,sh:ldow, 
looked  to  me,  as  "Webster  might  have  looked,  bad  he  hem 
a  poet,  —  a  kind  of  poetic  Webster.  He  ivxo-und  walked  to 
the  window,  and  stood  quietly  there  for  a  long  time,  watch 
ing  the  dead  white  landscape.  Xo  appeal  was  made  to  him, 
nobody  looked  after  him,  the  conversation  flowed  steadily  on 
as  if  every  one  understood  that  his  silence  was  to  be  respect- 


300  110MKS    OF    A  It  KU  1C  AN    AUTHORS. 

fil.  It  was  the  same  thing  at  table.  In  vain  the  silent  man 
imhihi-d  esthetic  tea.  Whatever  fancies  it  inspired  did  not 
iiower  at  his  lips.  But  there  was  a  light  in  his  eye  which 
assured  me  that  nothing  was  lost.  So  supremo  was  his 
silence  that  it  presently  engrossed  me  to  the  exclusion  of 
ev,cry  thing  else.  There  was  very  brilliant  discourse,  hut 
this  silence  was  much  more  poetic  and  fascinating.  Fine 
things  were  said  by  the  philosophers,  but  much  finer  tilings 
were  implied  by  the  dumbness  of  this  gentleman  with  hea\y 
blows  and  black  hair.  When  he  presently  rose  and  went, 
Kme-rsou,  with  the  "slow,  wise  smile"  that  breaks  over  his 
fuec,  like  "day  over  the  hky,  said  : 

"  Hawthorne  rides  well  his  horse  of  the  night." 

Thus  he  remained  in  my  memory,  a  shadow,  a  phantom, 
until  nu.re  than  a  year  afterward.  Then  I  camo  to  live  in 
Concord.  Every  day  I  passed  his  house,  but  when  the  vil 
lagers,  thinking  that  perhaps  I  had  some  clue  to  the  mys 
tery,  said, 

"  Do  yon  know  this  !Mr.  Hawthorne  ? " 

I  said  "  No,"  and  trusted  to  Time. 

Time  justified  my  confidence,  and  one  day  I,  too,  went 
down  flic  avenue,  and  disappeared  in  the  house.  I  mounted 
tlv»se  mysterious  stairs  to  that  apocryphal  study.  I  saw 
"•'the  cheerful  coat  of  paint,  and  golden-tinted  paper-hang 
ings,  lighting  up  the  small  apartment ;  while  the  shadow  of 
a  willow1  tree,  that  swept  against  the  overhanging  caves 
attempered  the  cheery  western  sunshine."  1  looked  from 
the  little  northern  window  whence  the  old  Pastor  watched 
the  battle,  and  in  the  small  dining-room  beneath  it,  upon, 
the  first  floor,  there  were 


HAWTHORNE.  801 

"  Duiuty  cltickcu,  HioW'whit 


anil  the  golden  juices  of  Italian  vineyard*,  which  still  fea>t 
•insatiable  memory. 

Our  author  occupied  the:  Old  Manse  lor  three  year^ 
During  that  time  he  was  not  seen,  probably,  hy  more  tlrati 
a  do/.en  of  tlu  villagers.  Ifis  walks  could  easily  avoid  thy 
town,  'and  upon  the  river  he  was  always  sure  of  solitude. 
It  was  his  favorite  habit  w  bathe  every  evening  in  the 
KMT,  after  nightfall,  ant)  in  that  part  of  it  over  which  the 
old  bridge  stood,  at  which  the  battle  was  fought.  Some 
times,  but  .rarely,  his  boat  accompanied  another  up  thf 
stream,  and  I  recall  the  silent  ami  preternatural  vigor  with 
which,  on  one  occasion,  he  wielded  his  paddle  to  counteract 
the  bad  rowing  of  a  friend  who  conscientiously  considered 
it  his  duty  to  do  something  and  not  let  Hawthorne  work 
alone  ;  but  who,  with  every  stroke,  neutralized  all  Haw 
thorne's  efforts..  I  suppose  he  would  have  struggled  until 
•he-  fell  senseless,  rather  than  ask  his  friend  to  doist.  His 
principle  seemed  to  be,  if  a  man  cannot  understand  without 
talking  to  him,  it  is  quite  useless  to  talk,  because  it  is  imma 
terial  whether  such  a  mam  understands  or  not.  His  own 
sympathy  was  bo  broad  and  sure,  that  although  nothing 
'had  been  said  for  hours,  his  companion  knew  that  n«»t  a 
thing  had  escaped  his  eye,  nor  had  a  single  pulse  of  beauty 
in  the  day,  or  scene,  or  society,  failed  to  thrill  his  heart.  In 
this  way  his  silence  was  most  .social.  Every  thing  seemed 
to  have  been  said.  It  was  a  I»armecide  feast  of  discourse, 
from  which  a  greater  satisfaction  resulted  than  troin  an  ac- 
iual  banquet. 


«JQ2  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUT1IO118. 

Wiieii  a  formal  attempt  was  made  to  desert  this  stylo 
<»f  conversation,  (ho  result  was  ludicrous.  Once  Kmcrson 
stint  Tlioreau  arrived  to  pay  a  cull.  They  were  shown 
into-  tho  little  parlor  upon  the  avenue,  and  Hawthorne 
presently  entered.  Kach  of  the  guests  sat  upright  in  his 
chair  like  a  Roman  Senator.  "To  them,"  Hawthorne,  like 
a  Dacian  King.  The  call  went  on,  hut  in  a  most  melan 
vholy  manner.  Tho  host  sat  perfectly  still,  or  occasionally 
propounded  a  question  which  Thoreiiu  answered  accurately, 
and  there  the  thread  broke  short  oil'.  Kinerson  delivered 
.sentences  that  only  'needed  the  betting  of  an  essay,  to 
charm  the  world  ;  hut  the  whole  visit  was  a  vague  gho.st. 
of  the  Monday  evening  Club  at  Mr.  Kmerson's,-^-it  Mas  a 
great  failure.  Had  they  all  been  lying  idly  upon  the  river 
brink,  .or  strolling  in  Thoreau'tt  blackberry  pastures,  the 
result  w»>uld  have  been  utterly  different.  Imt  imprisoned 
in.  tin*  proprieties  of  a  parlor,  each  a  wild  man  in  his  way, 
with  a  necessity  of  talking  inherent  in  the  nature  of  the 
ocea-sion,  there  was  only  a  waste  of  treasure.  This  was  the 
only  "call  "  in  which  I  ever  knew  Hawthorne  to  be  in 
volved.  . ; 

In  Mr.  Emerson's  house,  I  said  it  seemed  always  morn 
ing.  But  Hawthorne's  black-ash  trees,  and  scraggy  apple- 
boughs  shaded 

"A  lauil  in  whii'h  it  BOOUUH!  ul\vayn  afternoon." 

\  do  not  doubt  that  the  lotus  gruw  along  the  grassy -marge, 
of  fho  Concord  behind  his  house,  and  that  it  was  served, 
subtly  concealed,  to  all  his  giu>sts.  The  housv,  its  inmates, 
and  its, Hie,  lay >  dream-like,  upon  the  edge  of  the  little  village. 


UAWT1IOHNE.  303 

You-  fancied  that  they  all  came  together  and  belonged  t<>- 
gether,  and  were  glad  that  at  length  some  idol  of  your  imagi 
nation,  sonic  poet  whoso  spell  had  held  you,  and  would  hold 
you  for  ever,  was  housed  as  such  a  poet  should  be.  ' 

During  the  lapse  of  tho  three  years  since  the  bridal  tour 
of -twenty  miles  ended  at  the  "two  tall  ^ate-posts  of  rough 
hewn  si  one,"  a  little  wicker  wagon  had  appeared  at  intervals 
upon  the  avenue,  and  a  placid  babe,  whoso  eyes  the  soft 
Concord  day  had  touched  with  the  blue  of  its  beauty,  lav 
looking  tranquilly  up  at  tho  grave  old  trees,  which  sighed 
lofly  lullabies  over  her  bleep.  The  tranquillity  of  the  goldcn- 
haired  Una  was  the  living  and  breathing  type  of  the  dreamy 
life  of  t-he  Old  Manse.  Perhaps,  that  being  attained,  it  was 
as  well  to  go.  Perhaps  our  author  was  not  surprised  nor 
displeased  .when  the  hints  came,  "growing  wore  and  more 
dUtinct,  that  the  owner  of  the  old  house  was  pining  for  his 
native  air."  One  afternoon  1  entered  the  study,  and  learned 
fnun  its  occupant  that  the  last  story  he  should  ever  write-  • 
there  was  written.  The  son  of  the  old  pastor  yeamcd  for 
his  homestead.  The  light  of  another  summer  would  seek 
it>  poet  in  the  Old  Clause,  but  in  vain. 

While  Hawthorne  had  been  quietly  writing  in  the  "most 
delightful  little  nook  of  a  study,"  Mr.  Polk  had  been  elected 
President,  and  Mr.  Bancroft  in  the  Cabinet  did  not  forget 
his  old  friend  the  surveyor  in  the  custom-house.  There 
caiiio  siiggc*tions  and  oilers  of  various  attractions.  Still 
loving  Xew  England,  would  he  tarry  there,  or,  as  inspectut 
of  woods  and  forests  in  some  far-away  island  of  the  Southern 
Sea,  some  ha/.y  strip  of  distance  seen  from  Florida,  would 
he  taste  the  tropics?  He  meditated  all  the  chances,  without 


304  HOMES    OF    AMEIUCAN    AUTHORS. 

immediately  deciding.  Gathering  up  his  household  gods,  he 
passed  out  of  the  Old  Manse  as  its  heir  entered,  and  before 
the  eml  of  Hummer  was  domesticated  in  the  custom-house  of 
his  native  town  of  Salem.  .This  was  in  the  year  18I(>.  Upon 
leaving  the  Old  Manse  he  published  the  "Mosses,"  announc 
ing  that  it  was  the  last  collection  of  tales  he  should  put 
forth.  Those  who  knew  him  and  recognized  his  value  to  our 
1  he  rat  tire,  trembled  lest  this  was  the  last  word  from  one  who 
.fpuko  only  pearls  and  rubies.  It  was  a  foolish  fear.  The 
MIU  must  shine  —  the  scsi  must  roll  ---the  bird  must  sing, 
ami  the  poet  write.  Djuring  his  life  in  Sajem,  of  which  the 
introduction  to  the  "Scarlet  Letter"  describes  the  oiHcjal 
aspect,  he  wrote  that  romance.  It  is  inspired  by  the  spirit 
<«f  the  place.  Jt  presents  more  vividly  than  any  history  the 
gloomy  picturestpieucss  of  early  New  England  life.  There 
is  no  strain  in  our  literature  so  characteristic  or  more  real 
than  that  which  Hawthorne  had  successfully  attempted  in 
several  of  his  earlier  sketches,  and  of  'which  the  "Scarlet 
Letter  "•  is  the  great  triumph.  Jt  became  immediately  pop 
ular,  and  directly  placed  the  writer  of  stories  for  a  small 
circle  among  the  world's  masters  of  romance. 

Time*  meanwhile  changed,  and  Presidents  with  them. 
(icnerat  Taylor  was  elected,  and  the  Salem  Collector  retired. 
It  is  one  of  the  romantic  points  of  Hawthorne's  quiet  life, 
that  its  changes  have  been  so  frequently  determined  by  po 
litical  events,  which,  of  irll  .others,  are  the  mo.^t  entirely  for 
eign  to  his  tastes  and  habits.  lie  retired  to  the  hills  •  ' 
Berkshire,,  the  eye  of  the  world  liow  regarding  his 


ments.     There  he  lived  a  year  or  two  in  a  little  red  cottji:. 
u  pun  the  **  Stockbridge  l>o\vl,"  as  a  small  lake  near  that 


mm 
"SU*  -•• 

••ft 

>         /  ; 
-   •         / ,-         // 


II AWTUORKE.  300 

luwn  is  called,  In  this  retreat  he  wrote  the  "House  of  the 
>>even  Gables,"  which  more  deeply  confirmed  the  literary 
pu.-ition  already  acquired  tor  him  hy  the  first  romance. 
The  scene  is  laid  ia  Salem,  as  if  he  could  not  escape  a  strange 
fa>cination  in  the  witch-haunted  town  of  our  early  history. 
It  is  the  same  Mack  canvas  upon  which  plays 'the  rainbow* 
lhi:»h  of  his  fancy,  never,  in  its  brightest  moment,  more  than 
illuminating  the  gloom.  This  marks  all  his  writings.  They 
have  a  terrible  beauty,  like  the  Siren,  and  their  fascination, 
is  as  Mire. 

Alter  bix  years  of  absence,  Hawthorne  bus  returned  t«> 
Concord,  where  he  has  purchased  a  small  house  formerly  -oc 
cupied  by  Orphic  Alcott.  When  that  philosopher  came 
into  possession,  it  was  a  miserable  little  house  of  two  peaked 
gables.  JJut,  the  genius  which  recreated  itself  in  devi>ing. 
graceful  summer-houses,  like  that  for  Mr.  KmcrsoiL-  already 

O  #  * 

noticed,  noon  smoothed  the  new  residence  into  some  kind  oi 

: 

eumeliness.  Jt  was  an  old  house  when  Mr.  Alcott  entered 
it,  but  his  tasteful  linger  touched  it  with  picturesque  #frte.e. 
Not  like  a  tired  old  drudge  of  a  house,  rusting  into  unhon- 
«»red  decay,  but  with  a  mode.-t  fre>hncss  that  does  not  belie 
the  innate  sobriety  of  a  venerable  New  England  farm-house^ 
the  present  residence  of  our  author  stands  withdrawn  a  few 
yards  from  the  high  road  to  Boston,  along  which  Marched 
the  British  soldiers  to  Concord  bridge.  It  lies  at  the  foot  of 
a  wooded  hill,  a  neat  house  of  a  uru*ty  olive  hue,"  with  a 
l"iivli  in  front,  and  a  central  peak  and  a  piazza  at  each  end. 
The  genius  for  summer-houses  has  had  full  play  upon  the 
hill  hclund.  Here,  upon  the  hnmcly  steppes  of  Concord,  U  a 
Mrain-of  IVisia.  -Mr.  Alcott  built  terraces,  and  arbors,  and 
20 


IIAW'J'IIORNK.  805 

tuwu  id  called.  In  this  retreat  he  wrote  the  "IIo.uso  of  "the' 
Seven  Gables,"  which  more  deeply  confirmed  the  literary 
portion  already  acquired  lor  him  hy  the  first  romance. 
The  scehc  is  laid  in  Salem,  as  if  ho  could  not  escape  a  strange 
lamination  in  the  witch-haunted  town  of  our  early  history. 
h  i.-.  the  same  black  canvas  upon  which  plays  the  rainbow- 
l!a>h  of  his  fancy,  never,  in  its  brightest  moment,  more  than 
illuminating  the  gloom.  Tliis  marks  all  his  writings.  They 
have  a  terrible  beauty,  like  the  Siren,  ami  their  fascination 
is  as  sure. 

Alter  six  years  of  absence,  Hawthorne  has  returned  to 
Concord,  where  he  has  purchased  a  small  house  formerly  oc-. 
rupu'd  by  Orphic  Alcott.  When  that  philosopher  canu- 
into  possession,  it  was  a  miserable  little  house  of  two  peaked 
gables.  i»ut  the  genius  which  recreated  itself  in  devising 
graceful  summer-houses,  like  that  for  Mr.  Kmerson,  ahvady 
'•noticed,  soon  smoothed  the  new  residence  into  some  kind  of 
o.nu-liness.  It  was  an  old  house  when  Mr.  Alcutt  entered, 
it,  but  his  tasteful  linger  touched  it  with  picturesque  grace. 
Not.  like  a  tired  old  drudge  of  a  'house,  rusting  into  unhon- 
ored  decay,  but  with  a  modest  freshness  that  does  not  belie 
tlie  innate  sobriety  of  a  venerable  New  England  farm-house, 
the  present  residence  of  our  author  stands  withdrawn  a  few 
yards  from  the  high  road  in  Imston,  along  which  marched 
the  I'ritish  soldiers  to  Concord  bridge.  It  lies  at  the  foot  «f 
a  wooded  hill,  a  neat  house  of  a  <%  rusty 'olive  hue,"  with  a 
|M,IV!I  in  front,  and  a  central  peak  and  a  pia/xa  at  each  end. 
The  genius  for  summer-houses  has  had  full  play  upon  the 
hill  behind.  Hi-re,  upon  the  homely  steppes  of  Concord,  is  a 
>traiu  of  IVisia.  Mr.  Alcott  built  terraces,  and  arbors,  au4 
20 


300  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    A  U  Til  O  US. 

pavilions,  of  boughs  and  rough  steins  of  trees,  revealing  — 
somewhat  inadequately,  perhaps  —  the  hanging  gardens  of" 
delight  that  adorn  the  Babylon  of  his  Orphic  imagination. 
The  hill-side  is  no  unapt  emblem  of  his  intellectual  habit, 
which  garnishes  the  arid  commonplaces  of  lite  with  a  cold 
poetic  aurora,  —  forgetting  that  it  is  the  inexorable  law  <>t' 
light  to  deform  as  well  as  adorn.  Treating  life  as  a  grand 
epic  poem,  the  philosophic  Aleott  forgets  that  Homer  must 
nod,  or  We  fchould  all  fall  asleep.  The  world  would  not  be 
very  beautiful  nor  interesting,  if  it  were  all  one  huge  summit 
of  Mont  Blanc. 

Unhappily,  the  terraced  hill-side,  like  the  summer-house 
upon  Mr.  Emerson's  lawn,  "lacks  technical  arrangement," 
and  the  wild  winds  play  with  these  architectural  toys  of 
fancy,  like  lions  with  humming-birds.  They  are  gradually 
failing,  shattered,  —  and  disappearing.  Fine  locust-trees 
shade  them,  and  Ornament  the  hill  with  perennial  beauty. 
The  hanging  gardens  of  Semiramis  were  not  more  fragrant 
than  Hawthorne's  hill-side  during  the  Juno  blossoming  of 
tiie  locusts.  A  few  young  elms,  some  white  pines  and  young 
oaks,  complete  the  catalogue  of  trees.  A  light  bree/.e  con 
stantly  fans  the  brow  of  the  hill,  making  harps  of  the  tree- 
tops,  ami  singing  to  our  author,  who  "with  a  book' in  my 
hand,  or  an  unwritten  book  in  my  thoughts,"  lies  stretched 
beneath  them  in  the  shade. 

From 'the  height  of  the  hill  the  eye  courses,  unrestrained, 
over  the  solitary  landscape  of  Concord,  broad  and  still, 
broken  only  by  the  slight  wooded  undulat'oiis  of  insignifi 
cant  hilW-ks.  The  river  is  not  visible,  nor  any  gleam  of 
lake.  "\Val den  pond  is  just  behind  the  wood  in  front,  and 


'     lv't& 

*.*;    T5fcfev'V24'-;''' 

•-  '$&m$*  v;  .( 


.         «uuoj.  .ij=|; 

C|:l  • 

&i«y  I 


i  ;,        •  *.      --/^r       l 

« 

*- 

*x_..    ill 


MfX?  -;'  « 

^•••: 

'^•v,' 

1 


A      »^f-r  --M-i-ii'  ;.*.      •  ' "         I     • 

?«vSQ 

:^i 

:-isafi^' 


HAWTIIOKNE.  307 

not  far  away  over  the  meadows  sluggishly  steals  the  river. 
It  is  the  most  quiet  of  prospects.  Eight  acres  of  good  luiid 
lie  in  front  of  the  house,  across  the  road,  and  in  the  rear  the 
estate  extends  a  little  distance  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

This  hitter  is  not  good  garden-ground,  hut  it  yields  that 
other  crop  which  the  {>oct  ** gathers  in  a  Bong."  Perhaps  the 
world  will  forgive  our  author  that  he  is  not  a  prize  fanner,  .. 
and  makes  hut  an  indifferent  ligurc  at  the  annual  cattle-show. 
AVc  haves  seen  that  he  is  more  nomadic  than  agricultural.  " 
lie  has  wandered  from  spot  to  spot,  pitching  a  temporary  tent, 
•then  ,-triking  it  for '» fresh  fields  and  pastures  new."  Tt  is 
natural,  therefore,  that  he  should  call  his  'house  "the  AVax-' 
side,'*  —  a  bench  upon  the  road  where  he  sits  for  a  while  . 
before  pacing  on.  If  the  wayfarer  iinds  him  upon  that 
bench  he  shall  have  rare  pleasure  in  sitting  with  him,  yet 
shudder  while  he  stays.  For  the  pictures  of  our  poet  have 
more  than  the  shadows  of  Rembrandt.  If  you  listen  to  his 
story,  the  lonely  pastures  and  dull  towns  of  our  dear  old 
homely  New  England  shall  become  suddenly  as  radiant 
with  grace  and  terrible  with  tragedy  as  any  country  ami 
any  time.  The  waning  afternoon  in  Concord,  in  which  the 
blue-frocked  farmers  are  reaping  and  hoeing,  shall  set  in 
pensive  glory.  The  woods  will  for  ever  after  be  haunted 
with  strange  forms.  You  will  hear  whispers,  and  music  "  ir 
"the  air."-  In  the  softest  morning  you  will  suspect  Midness ; 
in  -the  most  fervent  noon,  a  nameless  terror.  It  is  because 
the  imagination  of  our  author  treads  the  almost  imper 
ceptible  line  between  the  natural  and  the  supernatural.  ANV 
are  all  conscious  of  striking  it  sometimes.  1'nt  we  avoid 
?  it.  We  recoil  and  hurry  away,  nor.  dare  to  glauce  over  our 


308  II  OWES    OF    AMERICAN    Al'TIIOKS. 

tdioulders  lest  wt>  should  sec  phantoms.  What  arc  these 
tales  of  supernatural  appearances,  as  well  authenticated  ab 
any  news  of  the  day,  —  and  what  is  the  sphere  which  they 
imply"?  What  is  the  more  subtle  intellectual  apprehension 
«if  fata  and  its  influence  upon  imagination  and  life?  What 
ever  it  is,  it  is  the  mystery  of  the  fascination  of  these  tales. 
They  converse  with  that  dreadful  realm  ns' with  oiir  real 
world.  The  light  of  our  him  is. poured  hy  genius  upon  the 
phantoms  we  did  not  dare  to  contemplate,  and  lo!  they  are 
ourselves,  unmasked,  and  playing  our  many  parts4  An  un- , 
utterablc  sadness  sei/es  the  reader,  as  the  inevitable  black 
thread  appears.  For  here  (ieiiius  assures  us  what  we  trem 
bled  to  suspect,  but  could  not  avoid  suspecting,  that  the. 
black  thread  is  inwoven  with  all  forms  of  -life,  with  all  de 
velopment  of  character. 

It  is  for  this  peculiarity,  which  harmonizes  so  well  with 
ancient  places,  whose  pensive  silence  seems  the  trance  of 
memory  musing  over  the,  young  and  lovely  life  that  illumi 
nated  its  lost  years,  —  that  Hawthorne  is  so  intimately  asso 
ciated  with  the  "Old  Manse."  Yet  that  was  but  the  tent  of 
a  night  for  him.  Already  with  the  ki  Hlithedale  Romance," 
which  is  dated  from  Concord,  a  new  interest  begins  to  cluster 
around  "  the  "Wayside." 

1  know  not  how  1  can  more  titly  conclude  these  reminis 
cences  of  Concord  and  Hawthorne,  whose  own  stories  have 
always  a  saddening  close,  than  by  relating  an  occurrence 
which  blighted  to  many  hearts  the  beauty  of  the  quiet  Con- 
cord  river,  and  seemed  not  inconsonant  with  its  lonely  land- 
r-capr.  It  has  the  further  fitness  of  typifying  the  operation 
of  our  author's  imagination  :  a  tranquil  stream,  clear  and 


HAWTHOBNK.  809 

bright  with  sunny  gleams,  crowned  with  lilies  and  graceful 
with  swaying  grass,  yet  doing  terrible  deeds  inexorably,  and 
therefore  for  ever  after,  of  a  shadowed  beauty. 

Martha  was  the  daughter  of  a  plain  Concord  fanner,  a 
girl  of  delicate  and  shy  temperament,  who  excelled  so  much 
in  study,  that  she  was  sent  to  a  tine  academy  in  a  neighbor 
ing  town,  and  won  all  the  honors  of  the  cour.se.    She  met  at 
the  school,  and  in  the  society  of  the  place,  a  refinement  and 
cultivation,  a  social  gayety  and  grace,  which  were  entirely 
unknown  in  the  hard  lite  she  had  led  at  home,  and  whieliTby 
their  very  novelty,  as  well  as  because  they  harmonized  with 
her  own  nature  and  dreams,  were  doubly  beautiful  and"  fasci 
nating.    She  enjoyed  this  life  to  the  full,  while  ln-r  timidity 
kept  her  only  a  spectator;  and  she  ornamented  it  with  a 
fresher   grace,  suggestive   of  the   w»»ods   and   iields,  when 
she  ventured  to  engage  in  the  airy  game.     It  was  a  sphere 
for  her  capacities  and  talents.     She  shone  in  it,  and  the  con 
sciousness  of  a  true  position  and  genial  appreciation,  gave 
her  the  full  use  of  .all  her  powers.     She  admired  and  was 
admired.     She  was  surrounded  by  gratifications  of  taste,' by 
the  stimulants  and  rewards  of  ambition.     The  v.'orld  wa»- 
happy,  and  she  was  worthy  to  live  in  it.     Hut  at  times  a 
cloud  suddenly  dashed  athwart  the  sun  —  a  shadow  stole, 
dark  and  chill,  to  the  very  edge  of  the  charmed  circle  in 
which  she  stood.     She  knew  well  what  it  was,  and  what  it 
foretold,  but  she  would  not  pause  nor  heed.    The  sun  sin  me 
again;    the  future  smiled;    youth,  beauty,  and  nil  grntle 
hopea  and  thoughts,  bathed  the  moment  in  lambent  light. 

But  school-days  ended  at  lant,  and  with  the  receding 
town  in  which  they  had  been  passed,  the  bright  days  of  lift- 


810  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

disappeared,  and  for  ever. ,  It  is  i)rubablo  that  the  girl'? 
fancy  had  been  fed,  perhaps  indiscreetly  pampered,  by  her 
experience  there.  But  it.  was  no  fairy  laud.  It  was  an 
academy  town  in  New  England,  and  the  fact  that  it  was  BO 
alluring  id  a  fair  indication  of  the  kind  of  life  from  which 
she  had  emerged,  and  to  which  she  now  returned.  What 
could  she  do?  In  the  dreary  round  of  petty  details,  in  the 
incessant  drudgery  of  a  poor  farmer's  household,  with  no 
companions  of  any  sympathy  —  for  the  family  of  a  hard- 
working  New  England  farmer  are  not  the  Cliloes  and  Claris 
sas  of  pastoral  poetry,  nor  are  cow-boys  Corydons, —  with  no 
opportunity  of  retirement  and  cultivation,  for  reading  and 
studying,  which  is  always  voted  "stuff"  under  such  circum- 
Bhuflccs,— -  the  light  suddenly  quenched  out  of  life,  what  was 
she  to  do  ? 

"Adapt  herself  to  her  circumstances.  A\rhy  had  she  shot 
from  her  sphere  in  this  silly  way?"  .demands  unanimous 
common  sense  in  valiant  heroics. 

The  simple  answer  is,  that  she  had  only  used  all  her  op 
portunities,  and  that,  although  it  was  no  fault  of  hers  that  the 
routine  of  her  life  was  in  every  way  repulsive,  she  did  strug 
gle  to  accommodate  herself  to  it,  —  and  failed.  "When  she 
found  it  impossible  to  drag  on  at  home,  she  became  an  in 
mate  of  a  refined  and  cultivated  household  in  the  village, 
where  she  had  opportunity  to  follow  her  own  fancies,  and  to 
associate  with  educated  and  attractive  persons.  But  even 
here  'she  could  not  escape  the  .feeling  'that  it  was  all  tempo 
rary,  tliat  her  position  was  one  of  dependence ;  and  her  pride, 
n»W  grown  morbid,  often  drove  'her  from  the  very  society 
which  alone  was  agreeable  to  her.  This  was  all  genuine. 


HAWTHORNE.  811 

There  was  not  the  slightest  strain  of  the  fcmme  incompriM 
in  her  demeanor.  She  was  always  shy  and  silent,  with  a- 
touching  reserve  which  won  interest  and  confidence,  but  left, 
'also  a  vague  sadness  in  the  mind  of  the  observer.  After  a 
tt»\v  months  she  made  another  effort  to  rend  the  cloud  tvhirh 
\va»  gradually  "darkening  around  her,  and  opened  a  school 
for  young  children.  Hut  although  the  interest  of  friends  *& 
cured  for  her  a  partial  success,  her  gravity  and  sadness  failed 
to  excite  the  sympathy  of  her  pupils,  who  missed  in  her  th-e 
playful  gaycty  always  most  winning  to  children.  Martha/ 
however,  pushed  bravely  on,  a  figure  of  tragic  sobriety,  to 
all  who  watched  -her  course.  The  farmers  thought  her  a 
strange  girl,  and  wondered  at  the  ways  of  a  farmer's  daiigh- 
.  ter  who  was  not  content  to  milk  cows,  and  churn  butter,  and 
fry  pork,  without  further  hope  or  thought.  The  good  clergy 
man  of  the  town,  interested  in  her  situation,  sought  a  confi 
dence  she  did  not  care  to  bestow,  and  so,  doling  out  a,  b,  c, 
to  a  wild  group  of  boys  and  girls,  she  found  that  she  could 
not  untie  the  Gordian  knot  of  her  life,  and  felt,  with  terror, 
that  it  must  be  cut. 

One  summer  evening  she  left  her  father's  house  and 
walked  into  the  fields  alone.  Night  came,  but  Martha  did 
not  return.  The  family  became  anxious,  inquired  if  any  one- 
had  noticed  the  direction  in  which  she  went,  learned  from 
the  neighbors  that  she  was  not  visiting,  that  there  was  no 
lecture  nor  meeting  to  detain  her,  and  wonder  passed  into 
apprehension.  Neighbors  went  into  the  adjacent  woods  and 
called,,  but  received  no  answer.-  Every  instant  the  awful 
shadow  of  some  dread  event  solemnized  the  gathering  groups. 
Every  one  thought  what  no  one  dared  whisper,  until  a  low 


312  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

roico  suggested  "  the  river."  Then,  with  the  swiftness  of  cer 
tainty,  all  friends,  far  and  near,  were  roused,  and  thronged 
along  the  banks  of  the  stream.  Torches  flashed  in  boats  that 
put  off  in  the  terrible  search.  Hawthorne,  then  living  in  the 
Oh!  Manse,  was  summoned,  and  the  man  whom  the  villagers 
had"  only  seen  at  morning  as  a  musing  spectre  in  his  garden, 
now  appeared  among  them  at  night  to  devote  his  strong  arm 
and  steady  heart  to  their  service.  The  boats  drifted  slowly 
ilt>wn  the  stream  —  the  torches  flared  strangely  upon  the 
black  repose  of  the  water,  and  upon  the  long,  slim  grasses 
that,  weeping,  fringed  the  riiarge.  Upon  both  banks  silent 
;tnd  awe-stricken  crowds  hastened  along,  eager  and  dread 
ing  to  find  the  slightest  trace  of  what  they  sought.  Sud- 
de'nly  they  enme  upon  a  few  articles  of  dress,  heavy  with  the 
night-flow.  No  one  spoke,  for  no  one  had  doubted  the  result. 
It  \\a,s  clear  that  Martha  had  strayed  to  the  river,  and  qui 
etly  asked  of  its  stillness  the  repose  she  sought.  The  boats 
.  'gathered  uround  the  spot,  With  every  implement  that  could 
be  of  service  the  melancholy  search  began.  Long  intervals 
of  tearful  eik'nce  ensued,  but  at  length,  toward  midnight, 
the  sweet  face  of  the  dead  girl  was  raised  more  placidly  to 
jhe  stars  than  ever  it  had  been  to  the  suh. 

"Ob!  is  it -weed,  or  tub,  or  floating  buir,— 
A  trtKi  o'  goKU'ii  Imir, 
O'  tlrowiu'tl  mault'ii'*  bair, 
Above  tbc  ncta  at  wit  \ 
Wag  never  pulnum  yet  tbut  ebone  BO  fair 
Among  tlnv  stakes  on  Dee." 

So  ended  a.  village  tragedy.     The  reader  may  possibly 


r    i 

N    ( 

V[ 

* 


<*       >  "*      *v 

i  *  t'\ 

x         f  i J  ^>* 


rIS  v     rs  -ft    ^     i  ^    ?^- 

fl^'^Cf'R 

?        iL .'  P    r^  \ 

i  Wk       k  '  K> 


HAWTHORNE.  818 

find  in  it  the  original  of  the  thrilling  conclusion  of  the 
"  Blithedalo  Romance,"  and  learn  anew  that  dark  us  is  the 
thread  with  which  Hawthorne  weaves  his  spells,  it  is  n»> 
darker  than  those  with  which  tragedies  are  spun,  even  in 
regions  apparently  so  torpid  as  Concord. 


Samel  Sfiftrtsttr. 


. 


^      . 


* 

••**-' 


WEBSTER. 


life  of  Daniel  Webster  is  too  closely  interwoven 
A  with  tlio  history  of  tlio  last  forty  years  to  bo  made  the 
subject  of  a  sketch  like  the  present  Ilia  name  suggesti) 
important  questions  and  events  of  great  moment.  A  single 
glance  at  that  stern  brow  and  dark  eye  calls  up  names  and 
recollections  that  thrill  you.  Culhoun  and  Adam*  and 
Randolph  and  Clay  —  a  volume  of  such  history  as  may 
never  be  written  again — -the  passage  of  a  great  nation 
through  one  of  the  most  diilicult  phases  of  its  develop- 


318  HOMES    OF    AMKU1CAN    AUTHORS. 

»' 

ment —  earnest  discussion  in  (lie. Senate-house  —  toilsome 
investigations  in  the  cabinet — eloquent  appeals  to  the  peo 
ple — ami  all  combined  with  untiring  devotion  to  a  labo 
rious  protection  and  occasional  excursions  into  one  of  -the 
mu*i  difficult  fields  of  literature,  —  the  hours  of  Biich  a  life 
wonkl  scorn  to  have  passed  too  gravely  to  have  left  room 
lor  lighter  scenes  and  more  genial  tasted,  l*ut  fortunately 
there  are,  kindlier  things  in  his  nature,  and  qualities  which 
bring  him  closer  to  the  sympathies  of  common  men.  Wo 
have  IK)  partiality  for  heroes  on  pedestals.  It  was  never 
meant  that  our  necks  should  be  strained  out  of  all  decen 
cy  by  this  constant  gazing  upwards.  Many  a  great  man 
has  been  wade  BO  excessively  great  by  his  worshippers, 
that  every  trace  of  poor  human  nature  has  been  obliter 
ate^  and  nothing  left  but  an  unearthly  compound,  without 
a  single  particle  of  reality  about  it  to  show  that  it  was 
originally  rnade  out  of  the  same  clay  with  ourselves.  Eveu 
Washington  has  not  escaped  this  senseless  transformation; 
and  though  no  man  could  laugh  more  heartily,  his  biog 
raphers  seem  to  feel  that  they  have  made  a  dangerous  eon- 
cession  When  they  allow  that  he  was  occasionally  known  to 
smile.  No  wonder  that  biography  should  be  so  cold,  when 
the  chief  labor  of  those  who  write  it  seems  to  be  to  prove 
that  their  heroes  were  either  angels,,  or  demigods,  or  demons, 
or  auy  thing  but  men.  For  the  present,  at  least,  we  have 
no  temptation  to  follow  their  example  ;  for  the  only  part  of 
Webster's  biography  which  we  shall  attempt  to  give,  with 
any  thing  like  detail,  is  his  childhood  and  early  youth. 

TKo  house  in'whic.h  he  was  born  was  one  of  those  one- 
story  farmhouses,  with  its  single  chimney  in  the  centre  of  a 


WEBSTER.  810 

sharp  roof,  a  front  door  standing  stiflly  between  two  narrow 
front  window*,  receiving  most  of  its  light  .from  the  sides, 
and  -having  all  its  good  rooms  on  the  ground  Hour,  which 
arc  fresh  in  the  memory  of  every  body  that  has  ever  rode 
a  mile  in  New  England.*  A  giant  elm  spread  its  |>rntt?«liiig 
bronchos  over  the  bhingle-roof,  and  directly  in  front,  one  of 
-those  limpid  littlo  streams,  which  give  such  fresnness  t'»  a 
landscape,  ran  prattling  by  the  wayside.  A  rustic  bridge 
connected  the  two  banks,  and  a  high  hill  crowned  with  a 
country  church,  closed  the  landscape  in  this  direction.  To 
the  southwest  there  was  a  still  wider  range  for  the  eye, 
.wlucli  at  the  period  of  his  infancy,  ran  over  a  broad  ex 
panse  of  Woodland  and  imperfect  clearings,  till  it  rested,  at 
last,  on  the  swelling  outlines  of  the  Kearsage. 

Hard  by  the  house  itself,  was  the  log-cabin  in  which  his 
elder  brothers  and  sisters  were  born,  and  which  his  father,  a 
soldier  of  the  old  French  war,  had  built  in  the  heart  of  the 
forest.  The  new  house,  for  a  frame-house  was  something  in 
those  days,  was  built  on  the  occasion  of  his  father's  sec 
ond  marriage.  AVe  should  add,  perhaps,  for  topographical 
accuracy,  that  it  was  situated  in  the  town  of  Salisbury,  Mer- 
rimac  county,  New  Hampshire. 

Here,  then,  while  the  forest  still  lay  close  around,  and  the 
traces  of  the  dangers  and  hardships  of  border  life  were  fresh 
at  every  step,  Daniel  Webster  first  saw  the  light,  a  feeble  and 
sickly  child,  on  the  18th  of  January,  1782,  the  last  year  <if 

*  For  the  engraving  ou  the  preceding  page,  the  only  authentic  view  uf  Mr. 
Wrbstor'a  birth-place,  we  are  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  ChulK-s  Ijuimun  I'M^., 
who  luade  the  drawing  ou  the  spot,  and  to  whoiu.  we  are  uko  indebted  for 
M-vt-ral  of  the  nu'U  and  aneedotea  in  our  article. 


320  HOMES    OF    AMKHICAN    AUTHORS. 

the  revolutionary  war,  Ilia  feebleness  seemed  to  mark  him 
out  from  the  first  as  unfit  for  tho  rough. life  that  it  might  be 
bis  lot  to  lead,  and  gave  him  additional  claims  to  the  tender 
watchfulness  of  his  mother.  She  taught  him  to  read,  and, 
thanks  fo  her  care,  one  of  the  first  volumes  with  which  he 
became  acquainted  was  tho  Bible.  From  the  lessons  of  his 
mother  he  Boon  passed  to  the  village  school,  a  log-house, 
about  'half  a  mile  from  his  father's,  open  only  in  winter, 
when  titfihcrs9  boys  had  nothing,  to  do  at  home,  and  could 
be  spared  to  lay  those  rude  foundations,  on  which  so  many 
a  brilliant  superstructure  has  been  reared.  The  days  wore 
short,  and  starting  early  in  the  morning,  with  his  books  in 
one  hand  and  the  little  tin  pail  that  held  his  dinner  in  the 
other,  he.  had  the  whole  of  his  "  noontimes  "  for  play,  and  a' 
tvaliv  home  again  through  the  snow  to  his  supper. 

Hut  unfortunately  the  school  was  migratory  —  sometimes 
M>  far  off  that  he  was  glad  when  the  blacksmith's  or  the  mill 
happened  to  lie  in  the  same  direction,  and  he  could  get  an 
occasional  lift  on  his  way.  Sometimes,  too,  it  was  altogether 
out  of  tho  reach  of  a  morning  and  evening's  walk  in  that 
rough  season,  and  then  lie  was  put  with  some  neighbor  to 
board.  . 

In  a  dark  glen  in  the  niidst  of  the  forest,  and  not  fur  from 
the  house,  his  father  had  built  a  saw-mill,  which  helped  him 
to  eke  out  his  income,  without  interfering  materially  \vitli 
his  other  duties.  Iji  the  intervals  .of  school-going,  Daniel, 
who  was  not' yet  strong  enough  for  heavier  tasks,  >vas  his 
ehixjf  assistant  at  the  mill.  There  was  the  gate  to  raise  and 
ihe  log  to  set,  and  then,  for  the  next  fifteen  or  twenty  min 
utes,  his  time  was  his  own.  Happily  his  love  of  reading 


WKB3TKK.  .        821 

was  already  awakened,  and  happily,  too,  his  intelligent  ami 
judicious  mother  had  turned  it  in  the  hest  direction.  His 
tory  and  biography  were  his  favorite  Looks,  and  while  .the 
saw  was  dividing  some  veteran  of  the  forest  into  plunks, 
which,  for  all  that  we  know  to  the  contrary,  may  yet  he 
otanding  amid  the  wood-work  of  the  .Capitol,  his  young 
wind  was  laying  up  treasures,  to  which  it  still  clings 'with 
the  tenacity  of  early  and  happy  associations 

He  had  already  formed  another  taste,  to:,  to  which  ho 
has  always  held  fast  through  life.     One  spring  day,  when 

_  he  was  about  live  years  old,  he  happened  to  be  riding  be 
hind  his  father  on  a  road  that  led  them  by  a  brook. 
"Dan,"  said  tin)  old  gentleman,  "how  would  you  like  to 
catch  a  trout?"  There  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  answer, 
and  in.  a  few  moments  the  barefooted  stripling  was  furnished 
with  a  hazel-rod  from  the  roadside,  a  hook  and  string  from 

•  his  father's  pocket,  and  creeping  up  along  a  rock  thut  lay 
on  the  margin  of  a  deep  pool,  he  threw  it,  as  he  was  bid,  into 
the  opposite  side,  and  soon  found  that  he  had  hooked  a  large 
trout.  Whether  from  inexperience  or  eagerness,  or  the  Mid- 
den  burst  of  joy  at  this  first  development  of  a  passion  which, 
if  nature  ever  planted  any  thing  in  the  human  mind,  hhe 
hud  surely  planted  in  his,  it  might  perhaps  be  diflicult  to 
suy;  but  whichever  it  was,  the  young  angler  lost  his  bal- 
^  and  tumbled  headlong  into  the  water.  The  ducking 
have  been  a  cold  one  for  a  puny  boy  at  that  season 
and  in  that  climate,  but  still  he  stuck  manfully  to  his  prize, 
and  when  his  father  pulled  him  out,  it  was  with  the  rod  in 
his  baud  and  the  fish  dangling  at  the  end. 

Some  thirty  years  afterwards,  and  when  he  had  already 
21 


32$  HOMES    OF    AMKUICAN    AUTHORS. 

served  his  nutivo  stato  with  distinction,  as  a  representative 
to  Congress,  he  found  himself  for  about  ten  days  a  member 
of  the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts.  Anxious  to  hear  his 
part  in  the  promotion  of  the  pulxlic  welfare,  and  finding  all 
the  moita  obvious  topics  already  taken  up,  he  introduced  a 
bill,  which  is  still  a  law  in  the  state,  and  which  forbid*, 
•iKutar  pains  and  penalties,  the  taking  of  trout  in  any  otljcr 
Way  but  the  old  .one  of  hook  and  line.  With  what  a  line 
effect  might  these  two  anecdotes  be  drawn  together,  if  we 
only  had  the  pen'  of  an  Irving  to  do  it  with. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  with  a  strong  passion  for 
reading,  his  father's  books  were  noon  exhausted.  District 
libraries  were  not  yet  known  ;  but  two  or  three  gentlemen 
who  knew  the  value  of  books,  hud  already  exerted  them 
selves  to  form  a  circulating  library  in  the  village  of  Sal  is-, 
bury,  and  from  this  a  new,  though  not  always  an  abundant 
supply,  could  be  obtained.  Among  his  early  favorites  was 
the  Spectator,  which  has  sown  so  much  good  seed  in  so 
many  minds  that  would  have  been  closed  to  any  other 
form  of;  instruction.  Air.  Webster  still  speaks  of  the  de 
light  with  which  he  first  read  u  Ohevy  Chase,"  turning  over 
ihe  pftges  of  the  criticism  to  follow  the  poem  connectedly, 
and  wondering  much  that  Addison  should  have  been  put 
to  such  pains,  to  prove  that  the  story,  was  a  good  one. 
Iludibras  also  soon  became  a  special  favorite,  without  in 
terfering  with  his  enjoyment  of  Pope's  Homer,  and  what 
in  this  connection,  may  heem  somewhat  strange,  the  "  Essay 
on  Man/'  So  strong,  indeed,  was  the  hold  which  this  last 
took  upon  his  mind  that  lie  learnt  the  whole  .of  it  by  heart, 
and  still,  it  is  said,  can  repeat  it  word  for  word.  Another 


WEBSTER.  823 

of  his  early  favorites  was  Watta*  Psalms  and  Hymns,  which 
4ook  thoir  place  in  his  memory  hy  the  side  of  Pope  and 
other  fruits  of  his  miscellaneous  reading.  The  lUble,  us 
we  have  already  said,  had  been  put  into  his  hands  very 
early,  and  he  soon  could  read  it  with  great  solemnity  and 
effect.  "When  ho  was  only  seven  years  old,  his  lather  kept 
a  public  house,  and  it  ..was  a  standing  saying  of  teamsters, 
as  they  stopped  at  the  door,  "  Come,  let's  go  in  and  have  a 
psalm  from  Dan  Webster."  AVo  err  greatly  if  much  of  that 
clearness  of  stylo  and  purity  of  language  which  distinguish 
Webster's  speeches  and  writings,  be  not  owing  to  his  early 
familiarity  with  these  models  of  pure  and  genuine  English. 

At  fourteen  he'  was  sent  to  Philips'  Academy,  Kxeter.. 
It  was  a  new  world  for  him  —  new  faces,  new  scenesx  and 
new  duties.  His  progress  for  his  opportunities  had  been 
good,  but  in  a  school  of  an  order  so  much  higher  than  any 
tiling  he  had  ever  seen  before,  it  could  carry  him  no  further 
than  the,  loot  of  the  lowest  class.  The  boys,  too,  laughed  at 
him,  and  called  him  a  backwoodsman.  It  was  mortifying, 
and  if  he  had  not  been  lucky  enough  to  find  borne  judicious 
friends  to  listen  to  his  grievances,  and  give  him  that  counte 
nance  and  encouragement,  for  the  l.ack  of  which  so  many 
rich  minds  have  failed  to  produce  their  fruit,  might  even 
have  discouraged  him.  The  usher,  Mr.  Nicholas  Kmery, 
who  has  lived  to  witness  the  confirmation  of  his  early 
judgment,  was  foremost  in  this  kind  otlice,  assuring  him 
that  if  ho  would  only  make  a  good  uso  of  his  tune,  all 
would  come  out  right  in  the  end.  The  young  scholar  be 
lieved  him,  and  labored  assiduously  at  his  ta^ks.  The  end 
of  the  month  came  round;  the  class  were  ranged  in  a  line: 


324  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

and  tho  tutor,  scarcely  less  gratified,  perhaps,  than  his  obe. 
dient  pupil,  took  him  formally  by  the  ana,  and  leading  him 
along  the  front,  placed  him  with  his  own  hand  at  the  head 
ot*  the  class.  It  was  the  first  step,  and  the  boy's  ambition 
was  roused.  Tho  next  term's  studios  were  followed  up  still 
more  closely,  and  tho  summing  up  looked  for  with  no  lit tlo 
anxiety,  for  there  were  rivals  to  contend  with,  of  whose  merit 
he  was  fully  aware.  The  first  words  were  doubtful- — "Dan 
iel  Webster,  gather  up  your  books  and  take  down  .your  cap." 
"They  4r<Li  going  to  expel  mo  from  school,"  was  tho  hasty 
th might  *>f  the  poor  boy,  as  he  obeyed  the  command,  and 
then  waited  with  sore  misgivings  for  what  was  to  follow. 
"Now  sir,"  resumed  the  kind-hearted  tutor,  ''you  will 
please  report  yourself  to  the  teacher  of  tho  first  class ;  and 
yo»,  young  gentlemen,  will  tako  an-  affectionate  leave  of 
your  classmate,  for  you  will  never  see  him  again." 

lint  although  ho  was  perfectly  successful  in  all  his  other 
studies,  he  found  a  sad  stumbling-block  in  the  weekly  exer 
cise  of  'declamation.  -Not  that  his  memory  failed  him,  for 
ho  learnt. by  heart  easily,  and  never  forgot  what  Jie  had  once 
learned.  But  ho  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  stand  out 
before  the  school  and  speak  when  everybody's  eye  was  upon 
him.  Btukminster,  whoso  early  death  is  still  remembered 
with  pain,  did  and  said  every  thing  that  he  could  to  per 
suade  him — "try  once — only  try."  The  tutors  frowned  and 
laughed  ;  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  ITe  could  neither  be  laughed 
nor  froWned  out  of  his  timidity,  and  finally,  we  believe, 
left  school  without  once  having  ventured  to  tako  tho  first 
stop  in  the  art  which  was  to  become  tho  daily  exercise  of 
his  life. 


WEBSTEH.  325 

Jt  was  a  misfortune  that  ho  was  not  able  to  complete  his 
Studies  at  this  excellent  institution.  lie  hud  completed  his 
course  of  English  grammar,  made  good  progress  in  his  cither 
English  studios,  and  begun  his  Latin.  But  after  a  few 
mouths  his  father  was  obliged  to  take  him  away.  His  pro 
gress,  however,  had  been  such  as  to  awaken  the  fondest 
hopes,  and  great  as  the  eilort  was,  it  was  decided  that  he 
should  be  sent  to  college.  This  is  a  common  word  now,  and 
we  eau  scarcely  form  a  conception  of  the  ideas  that  it  con 
veyed  to  the  mind  of  a  farmer's  boy  of  sixty  years  ago.  It 
was  to  open  his  way  to  the  university  that  poor-  Kirko  White 
publUhed  his  sweet  little  poem  of  Clifton  (JroVe,  and  to 
prove  his  appreciation  of  its  advantages  that  he  tortured 
himself  with  mathematics  after  he  got  there.  There  tfaS  no, 
such  way  for  Webster,  of  pushing  himself  forward  over  .that, 
dilh'eult  first  step,  and  a  college  course  was  a  mine  of  wisdom 
which  he  had  never  dared  to  think  of  as  within  his  reach.  But 
his  father's  decision  was  already  taken.  At  the  neighboring 
town  of  Boscawen  there  was  a  clergyman  of  the  name  of 
Wood,  fully  qualified  to  teach  Latin  and  Greek  enough  to 
carry  a  boy  of  those  days  to  the  college  door,  and  who  had 
agreed  to  board  and  teach  young  AVeb&ter  for  a  dollar  a  week. 
In  February  of  '97,  father  and  son  set  out  upon  their  journey, 
ami  it  was  now  that  Daniel  iirst  learnt  how  generously  his 
lather  was  prepared  to  deal  by  him.  "I  remember,"  says 
he,  "the  very  hill  which  we  were  ascending,  through  deep 
snows,  in  a  Nuw  England  sleigh,  when  my  father  made 
known  his  purpose  to  me.  I  could  not  speak.  How  could 
lie,  I  thought,  with  so  large  a  family  and  in  such  narrow  cir 
cumstances,  think  of  incurring  so  great  an  expense  for  met 


326  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

A  warjfa  glow  ran  all  over  me,  and  I  laid  'my  head  on  my 
father^  shoulder  and  wept."  ' 

Ho  now  had  a  iixed  object  in  view  and  studied  hard. 
He  made  rapid  progress  in  his  Latin,  road  Virgil  and  Cicero, 
and  though  tar  from 'laying  that  critical  foundation  which  can 
now  ho  laid  by  a  willing  scholar,  went  fur  enough  to  form  a 
taste  for  the  great  Komuii  orator  which  he  has  never  lost. 
Still  two  of  his  early  tastes  stuck  by  him- — general  reading, 
und.hirt  rod  and  line.  Hid. task  wan  never  neglected  ;  but  he 
would  fitill  be  ranging  the  hills  for  game,  and  Decking  out 
•the  'tu  tied  banks  and  deep  pools,  the  favorite  haunt  of  the 
trout.  Mr.  Wood  would  nome times  shako  his  head  and  look 
grave;  but  the  lesson  Was  always  ready,  and  what  moro 
coulj  he  ask?  On  one  occasion,  after  a  reprimand  for  this 
love  of  the  hills  and  streams,  the  old  gentleman,  who  WHS  to 
bo  a  Wat  tho  next  morning,  gave  his  pupil  a  hundred  lines 
in  Virgil  for  his  task.  Daniel  set  up  all  night,  got  live  hun 
dred-  lines  instead  of  a  hundred,  and  secured  the  whole  of 
tho  next  day  for  his  favorite  sport.  Here  too  he  first  road 
Don  Quixotte.  "I  began  to  read  it,"  he  has  been  heard  to 
say,  .''and  it  is  literally  true  that  1  never  closed  my  eyes  till 
I  had  iinished  it;  nor  did  I  lay  it  down  any  time  for  live 
minutes,  so  great  was  the  power  of  this  extraordinary  hook 
'on  my  imagination."  "When  he  iirst  met  Shakspeare  wo 
have  never  heard  ;  but  it  is  well  known  that  few  writers 
have  exercised  a  more  powerful  influence  over  him. 

In  August  ho  entered  Dartmouth  College,  and  set  him 
self  to  his  ta'sk  manfully.  His  superiority  was  soon  felt  and 
acknowledged;  but  with  it  there  were  a  genial  temper. and 
social  ha-bits  which  took  away  the.  bitterness  of  rivalry,  and 


WEBSTER.  827 

gave  him  the  same  strong  hold  upon  the  affections  of  his  '•• 
companions  .that  ho  had  upon  their  esteem.  Hi*  view*  and 
.  ambitions  extended  with  the  field,  lie  took  part  in  the  pub 
lication  of  a  weekly  paper,  furnishing  selections  from  hi.-: 
own  reading,  and  occasionally  an  editorial  from  his  pen. 
Ify  resolute  will  he  overcame  his  dread  of  public  speaking,., 
and  delivered  several  addresses  before  college  societies, 
borne  of  which  were  published.  Me  read  o\teuMYcly,~~ 
chou.sing  among  the  be>t  historians  and  poets,  and  laying 
that  groundwork  of  general  literature,  without  which  the 
hr.>l  mind  contracts  and  dries  up  in  the  mere  routine  of 
professional  life.  His  time,  however,  was  not  altogether 
his  own.  lie  well  knew  that  the  expense  of  his  .education 
was  one  that  his  father  could  illy  bear,  and  ho  was  resolved 
from  the  iir*t  to  do  all  that  he  could  to  lighten  the  hurtlwn. 
Then  as  now,  the  chief  resource  of  poor  students  was  h* 
school-teaching  during  the  long  winter  vacations,  and  Web 
ster,  like  so  many  others  of  our  great  men,  who  bvgari  the 
world  with  all  its  thorns  and  stumbling-blocks  in  their  path, 
had  to  help  himself  along  by  teaching  a  country  school. 

lie  was  still  in  his  Sophomore  year  when  he  formed  the 
plan  of  Becuring  for  his  brother  Ezekiel,  to  whom  he  was 
fondly  attached,  the  same  advantages  which  he  was  enjoy 
ing.  When  at  home  the  two  boys  slept  together,  and  the 
whole  night,  on  a  vacation  visit,  was  devoted  to  a  discussion 
of  all  the  difficulties  and  doubts  and  hopes  of  this -brotherly 
conception.  The  next  morning  it  was  submitted  to  their 
father,  who  was  ever  willing  and  ready  to  do  all  and  even 
more  than  he  could  afford  to  do  for  his  children,  and  the 
result  of  the  family  council  was,  that  Ezekiel  too  should 


823  HOMES    OF    AMKK1UAN    AUTHORS. 

have  a  college  education.  He  was  immediately  sent  to  be 
gin,  liis  Latin,  and  entered  Dartmouth  in  the  -spring  of  the 
year  in  which  his  brother  graduated. 

SiU'cesRful  as  Webster's  college  course  was,  he  did  not 
gain  the  first  honors  of  his  clans.  A  rival  whose  name 
has  long  been  forgotten,  received  the  "  Valedictory,"  and 
the  disappointed  candidate,  assembling  a  portion  of  his 
classuiates  on  the  green  behind  the  college,  tore  up  his 
diploma  in  their  presence,  and  casting  the  fragments  into 
the  air,  cried  out  in  a  voice  that  was  noon  to  be,  a  familiar 
tono  in  the  high  places  of  the  land,  ".My  industry  may 
make  me  a  great  man,  but  this  miserable  parchment  can- 
Hot."  It  would  be  a  curious  inquiry,  for  one  who  had  tho 
time,  why.  tho  valedictorians  and.  salutatorians  of  our  col 
leges  are  so  seldom  heard  of  in  after  life.  There  must  be 
a  cause,  and  whether  it  lie  in  the  individual  or  the  system, 
it  is^vell  worth  the  attention  of  a  philosophic  mind. 

Ife  luid  already  chosen  his  profession,  and  immediately 
entered  the  oflico  of  Mr.  Thompson,  of  Salisbury,  as  a  stu 
dent  of  law.  Mr.  T.  was  a  lawyer  of  the  old  school  —  a  man 
of  talent  and. respectable  acquirements,  but  unskilled  in  the 
ad  of  smoothing  the  entrance  into  a  dillicult  science.  Coke, 
with  his  abstract  propositions  and  nice  distinctions,  was  the 
lirst  author  that  he  put  into  the  hands  of  his  students  —  a 
very  good  way,  it  may  be,  of  making  the  rest  of  their  course 
'easy,  but  a  sure  one  of  breaking  the  spirits  of  any  but  the* 
most  resolute.  Happily.. for  Mr.  Webster,  the  necessity  -of 
providing  for  his  own  and  his  brother's  expenses  relieved 
him  fora  time  from  this. unwelcome  drudgery,  Tu  January 
he  was  invited  to  take  charge  of  a  large  school  at  Fryeburg, 


WEBSTER. 

in  Maine,  with  a  salary  of  tlireo  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a 
your.  The  offer  was  joyfully  accepted,  and  ho  soon  found 
himself  installed  in  his  now  dignity,  with  two  afternoons  in 
the,  week  and  all  his  evenings  at  his  command.  To  make 
the  most  of  his  Kahiry  ho  undertook  to  act  as  assistant  to  the 
register  of  deeds  of  the  county,  whero  two  large  volumes  in 
a  neat  handwriting  htill  remain  to  hear  witness  to  hi*  indus 
try.  Thin,  at  tho  rate*  of  twenty-five  cents  a  deed,  brought 
him  enough  for  his  current  expenses,  and  enabled  him  t«»  lay 
up  tho  whole  of  his  salary. 

Fryeburg,  like  Salisbury,  had  its  circulating  library, 
which  supplied  him  with  tho  materials  for  many  a  pleasant 
ami  profitable  hour.  His  only  recreation  was  twitting,  and 
on  his  holiday  afternoons — Wednesday  and  Saturday — ho 
anight  always  be  found  on  tho  banks  of  some  brook,  with 
his  fishing-rod  and  his  Shakspcare.  One  circumstance 
alone  would  have  been  sufficient  to  give  Frycburg  a  pleas 
ant  hold  upon  his  memory,  for  it  was  here  that  he  first 
tbund  a  copy  of  Blackstone,  and  opened  for  himself  a  far 
more  cheerful  pathway  into  his  science  than  that  which 
his  instructor  had  marked  out  for  him.  The  only  record 
of  his  personal  appearance  at  this  period  is  contained  in 
his  own  description  of  himself — "'Long,  blender,  pale,  and 
all  eye's.'*  " -Indeed,"  says  he,  "I  went  by  tho  name  of  </// 
eyes  the  country  round." 

But  satisfactory  as  his  situation  was  in  a  pecuniary  .view, 
he  was  too.  anxious  to  push  on  in  his  profession  to  remain 
there  any  longer  than  his  immediate  wants  required.  Ac 
cordingly,  after  eight  months  of  teaching,  and  with  a  warm 
expression  of  the  satisfaction  of  his  employers  in  his  pocket, 


330  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

he  returned  to  Mr.  Thompson's  office  and  resumed  the  study 
of  the  law. 

Tie  eame  back  with  a  wider  range  of  reading  and  a  better 
knowledge  of  what  he  was  to  do  in  order1  to  make  himself  a 
lawyer.  He  had  re*ad  Blackstone,  and  now  he 'laid  Coke 
ittidt*,  and  gave  his  attention  to  works  better  suited  to  his 
|irogre!iH  and  his  wants.  lie  continued  his  studies  of  the 
English  and  Latin  classics,  giving  a  special  attention  to 
hibtory,  and  carrying  his  Latin  beyond  the  'common  range 
by  muling  in  that  language  the  whole  of  Puntmdorff'fl  His 
tory  of  England.  Cicero  continued  to  be  a  special  favorite, 
uml  as  J*o  turned  again  and  again  the  eloquent  pages,  and 
felt  that  each  new  perusal  carried  him  deeper  into  the.  beau- 
tie.s  of  his  author,  he  might  have  applied  to  himself  the  pre 
cept  of  Quintilian,  and  estimated  his  own  progress  by  his  in 
creased' appreciation  of  the  great  model  of  Latin  eloquence, 
lie  now  added  Giusar,  Stillust  and  Horace  to  his  list  of  clasn' 
sits— -for  his  College  reading  had  done  but  little  more  than 
give  him  a  first  relish  of  their  beauties.  Written  translation, 
that  best  teacher  of  style,  became  an  occasional  if  not  a  reg 
ular  exercise,  and  several  of  his  translations  from  Horace 
were  so  successful  that  they  were  published.  What  a  les 
sen  for  our  young  lawyers,  who,  with  all  the  advantages  of 
our  improved  methods  of  classical  instruction,  throw  away 
their  classics  even  before  they  get"  their  diplomas,  and 
scarcely  go  farther  in  the  literature  of  their  own  language 
tlran  the  best  novel  or  an  article  in  their  Quarterly. 

After  eighteen   months  at  Salisbury,  Webster  went  t'o 
Bot.ton,  and  after  unsuccessful  application  at  several  otlices 
admitted  into  that"  of  Mr.  Gore,  a  happy  circumstance 


WEBSTER.  881 

for  both,  for  it  gave  the  student  the  friendship  and  advice  of 
a  man  who  knew  how  to  appreciate  him,  and  to  the  instructor 
the  pleasure  of  doing  much  towards  the  formation  of  a  fresh 
ami  vigorous  mind.  It  may  well  be  supposed  that  if  he  had 
been  industrious  before,  he  was  doubly  so  now.  Mr.  Gore 
was  not  merely  a  lawyer,  but  an  cmiircnt  statesman,  deeply 
road  in  books  and  'men.  Under  his  direction  the  young 
student  entered  boldly  into  the  broadest  paths  of  his  sci 
ence.  He  read  the  best  works  upon  common,  municipal 
and  international  law ;  he  followed  up  the  sittings  of  the 
Supremo  Court,  reporting  all  its  decisions,  as  well  as  those 
of  the  Circuit  Court  of  the  United  States,  which  was  soon 
to  become  the  field  of  his  most  brilliant  etlorts.  JJwt  his 
favorite  study  was  the  common  law,  and  more  particularly 
tlio  department  of  special  pleading.  Bacon,  Viner,  and  the 
common  treatises  were  not  sufficient  to  satisfy  his  longings 
for  a  thorough  mastery  of  this  beautiful  and  Ingenious  sub 
ject.  Ifo  read  Suunders  in  the  old  folio,  abstracting  and 
translating  the  pleadings  from  the  Latin  and  Norman 
French  —  an  exercise  which  has  left  deep  traces  behind  it 
in  the  clear  and  ready  analysis,  which  forms  one  of  the 
prominent  characteristics  of  his  writings.  Now,  too,  ho 
had  other  books  at  his  command,  and  could  continue  his 
miscellaneous  reading  upon  a  broader  scale.  Fortunately 
his  taste  hail  been  too  well  formed  to  allow  kirn  to  waste 
his  time.  History  and  poetry  were  his  fuvorito  resources, 
and  it  may  well  bo  supposed  that  ho  never  let  any  occasion 
slip  by  him  of  studying  the  best  specimens  of  forensic  and 
parliamentary  eloquence.  Ho  himself  baa  recorded  the 


382  HOAIKS    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

delight  with  which   ho   read  the   great  speech   of  Fisher 
A  met*  on  the  British  treaty. 

AV*  Jiave  alluded  to  Mr.  Gore's  appreciation  of  his  pupil 
It  wan  ft  happy  thing  for  our  country  that  he  did.  Mr.  AYeb- 
fcter's  father  had  been  for  several  years  an  associate  justice 
of  the  court  of  common  pious,  and  the  clerkship  of  the  court, 
a  place  of  iifteeu  hundred  dollars  a  year,  fulling  vacant,  and 
being  -offered  to  him  for  his  son,  he  felt  that  the  young  man's 
fortune  was  made,  ami  immediately  wrote  to  him  to  commu 
nicate  the  happy  tidings.  Nothing  but  the  earnest  remon 
strances  of  Mr.  Gore  prevented  him  from  accepting  it  and 
condemning  himself  for  life  to  a  toilsome  and  uncongenial 
drudgery. 

In  March,  1805,  he  was  admitted  to  the  Suffolk  bar.  Mr. 
Gore  presented  him  to  the  judges,  and  according  to  the  cus 
tom  of  the  times,  prefaced  the  motion  for  his  admission  by 
ait  <uu;omftim  upon  tho  new  candidate.  The  young  lawyer 
then  returned  to  his  native  state,  and  tV>  be  near  his  family, 
opened  an  office  at  Uoscawen,  which  after  tw,o  years  he  gave 
np  t»»  his  "brother  and  removed  to  Portsmouth.  Here,  among 
many  other  eminent  men,  ho  had  for  friends  and  associates 
at  the  bar  Joseph  Story  and  Jeremiah  Mason.  The  next 
five  years  were  devoted  to  the  practice  of  his  profession,  in 
which  he  immediately  took  his  place  among  tho  first  men 'of 
tho  state.  In  181*3  he  was.  elected*  to  the  Ifouse  of  .Kepre- 
senjutiyes,  and  his  history,  from  that  day,  becomes  a -part  of 
tho  legal  and  civil  and  literary  history  of  his  country. 

It  is  evident  from  what  we  have  said,  that  Mr.  Webster 
must  have  been  a  very  industrious  man.  lie  is  no  believer 


WEBSTER.  833 

in  that  absurd  doctrine  of  the  spontaneous  development  of 
genius,  which  has  proved  the  ruin  of  so  many  clever  men. 
His  kmndedge  has  been  the  result  of  hard  work.     His  hab 
its  of  close  reasoning  were  won  b^ careful  discipline.      lie 
learnt   the  art  of  arranging  his  own   thoughts  by  patient   • 
analysis  of  the  thoughts  of  others.     His  language,  always 
vigorous,  direct  and  pure,  was  drawn  from  daily,  and  nightly, 
study  of  the  great  writers  of  English  literature,     lllustra- • 
tions,  which   seem  to  rise  so  spontaneously  from  the 'sub 
ject,  are  the  fruits  of  extensive  reading  and  close  observa 
tion.      His   tenacious   memory  was  carefully  cultivated   in 
youth,  and  the  learning  by  rote,  which  so  many  reject  as 
unworthy  of  their  genius,  was  one  of  his  favorite  exercises, 
(iihhon  prided  himself  not  a  little  upon  being  able  to  repeat, 
in  his  old  age,  an  ode  of  Voltaire's,  which  he  had  not  seen 
since  he  was  a  young  man ;  and  wonderful  things  are  told  of 
Macuulay's  feats  of  memory.     Webster  learnt   the  4.'  Ks.si'y 
on  Alan"  in  his  childhood,  and  though  he  has 'nut  looked    * 
at  it  since  he  was  fifteen,  can  still  recite  the  greater  part  of 
it  without  .hesitating.     It  is  one  of  the  secret*  of  Mr.  Web 
ster's  Mieeess,  that  he  has  held  on  tenaciously  to  his  early 
acquisitions,    The  Latin  that  he  learnt  at  college  was  made 
the  basis  of  careful  subsequent  study,  and  Cicero  continues 
to  be  his  favorite  author  to  the  present  day. 

Mr.  Webster  has  always  been  an  early  riser.  Like  Seotr^ 
he  has  done  the  greater  part  of  his  work  "in  the  morning." 
Uelbre  others  are  stirring,  he  may  be  seen  on  his  way  to 
market,  purchasing  his  day's  dinner  or  busily  talking  with 
the  marketmen  from  the  country,  whose  conversation  he 
loves.  Then  comes  his  correspondence  and* 'the  morning  * 


HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

paper,  and  when  ho  scuta  himself  at  the  breakfast-table, 
tla<  day's  work  of  a  common  man  is  already  done. 

Flailing  is  still  his  favorite  amusement,  and  ho  is  never 
M»  happy  as  -when  lie  can  escape  for  a  few  days  from  the 
toils  of  oftice,  and  indulge  himself  with  his  hook  and  line. 
Ijero  again  the  habits  of  a  thoughtful  mind  are  ever  break 
ing  forth.  lie  has  made  himself  familiar  with  the  ways  of 
the  little  animals  that  have  afforded  him  so  much  sport,  and 
made  many  observations  upon  them  that  would  add  a  curi 
ous  and  valuable  cfeqjrter  to  natural  history.  It  was  while 
trouting  on  the  Marshpee  brook,  that  he  planned  out  his 
Hunker  Hill  address,  and  the  "  venerable  men  "  who  first 
listened  to'  one  of  its  most  eloquent  jpassUgcs,  are  eaid  to 
have  beeii  a  couple  of  trout  of  uncommon  si/e  and  beauty. 
All  men  havo  their  favorite  hours  and  modes  of  composing, 
the  comparison  of  which  would  form  not  only  an  amusing 
chapter,  but  a  valuable  commentary  upon  that  doctrine  of 
idiosyneracies  which  some  eminent  men  are  so  much  attach 
ed  to.  Adam  Smith  always  dictated  to  an  amanuensis, 
walking  up  and  down  .the  room.  Jlumo  ran  oil*  his  ilowing 
periods  comfortably  pillowed  on  a  sofa.  Burke  wrote  in  a 
little  room  with  bare  walls.  Schiller  and  Button  in  summer-' 
houses  nt  tho  end  of  their  gardens ;  and  Johnson  used  to 
assert  with  his  dictatorial  positivoness,  that  a  ma-n  could 
write  just  as  well  at  one  time  or  in  ono  place  as  another. 
We  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Webster  has  any  particular  the 
ory  upon  tho  subject,  but  his  practice  is  decidedly  in  favor 
of  the  open  air.  His  great  pica  in  the  Dartmouth  College 
case  was  arranged  on  an  excursion  from  Boston  to  Barnsta- 
ble.  The  speech  which  he  puts  into  tho  mouth  of  John 


WEBSTER.  335 

Adams  in  his  Eulogy  on  Adams  and  Jefferson,  and  which 
has  puzzled  so  many  novices  in  history,  was  composed  while 
riding  in  a  New  England  chaise.  And  indeed,  whether  rid 
ing,  or  hunting,  or  fishing,  his  mind  seems  always  to  have 
heen  busy,  and  doubtless  with  him,  as  with  every  body  else 
who  has  written  much,  many  a  thought  has  dropped,  from 
his  pen  in  the  retirement  of  hid  closet,  which  had  its  birth' 
in  the  sunlight,  amid  green  fields  and  laughing  streams. 

Mr.  "Webster's  favorite  resorts  in  his  occasional  escapes 
from  business,  are  his  farms.  The  "Elms  farm,"  in  New 
Hampshire,  about  three  miles  from  his  birth-place,  and  on 
which  he  passed  several  years  of  his  childhood,  is  abroad 
tract  of  a  thousand  acres,  lying  in  a  bend  o'f  the  Memmar, 
within  sight  of  the  White  Mountains.  This  is  chk'fly  valua 
ble  as  a  grazing  farm. 

'Marsh  field  is  in  Plymouth  county,  Massachusetts,  about 
thirty  miles  from  Boston.  It  contains  two  thousand  aero*  of 
land  in  high  cultivation,  with  two  or  three  dozen  buildings 
of  various  kinds,  ii  flower-garden  covering  an  acre  ahd  filled 
with  a  rich  variety  of  native  plants,  an  old  orchard  of  some 
three  hundred  trees,  a  new  one  of  a  thousand,  forest  trees 
of  every  kind,  a  hundred  thousand  of  which  have  grown 
from  need  of  his  own  planting,  and  the  whole  intersected 
with  roads  and  avenues  and  gravelled  walks,  and  shady 
paths,  which  lead  you  onward  through  such  a  variety  of 
charming  vistas  and  scenes,  that  foot  and  eye  never  grow 
weary  of  tracing  the  grateful  succession.  Near  the  house 
are  three  little  lakes  of  fresh  water  —  two  of  them  the 
favorite  resort  of  tribes  of  ducks  and  geese,  and  one,  the 
largest  of  all,  with  little  ecdgy  islands  scattered  over  its 


336  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS* 

surface,  the  exclusive  domain  of  a  largo  floct  of  wild  geese, 
which,  ailef  irifcny  trials^  Mr.  Webster  succeeded  ii\  taming 
down  to  a  fixed  home.  To  complete  the  landscape,  we  must 
add  "an  immense  expanse  of  ttiarsh  land,  veined  with  silver 
streumis,  dotted  with  islands  of  unbroken  forest,  skirted  with 
a  far-reaching  beach,  and  bounded  by  the  blue  ocean." 

With  thu  engraving  to  tell  the  whole  story  at  a  glance, 
it  Would  be  but  a  waste  of  paper  to  attempt  to  describe  the 
house.  We  will  only  add  that  it  stands  upon  the  summit 
of  n  grassy  lawn,  under  the  shadow  of  an  elm  tree,  with 
nine  rooms  on  the  ground  iloor,  and  is  ornamented  with  pic 
tures,  engravings,  statuary,  and  every  variety  of  curiosities. 
The  west  'rootn  is  a  Gothic  library,. built  from  tho  design  of 
th*.!  lato  Mrs.  Apple  ton.  The  whole  of  Mr.  Webster's  books, 
however,  are  not  here.  The  law  library  is  at  Boston,  and 
tho  library  of  natural  hibtory  and  agriculture,  in  the  farm- 
otlive  at  the  end  of  the  gardeir.  The  entire  collection  is 
valued  at  forty  thousand  dollars. 

.Mr.  Webster's  arrival  at  his  farms. is  a  signal  of  gather 
ings  ami  congratulatory  visits  from  his  neighbors,  all  of 
whom  come  to  take  him  by  the  hand  and  express  their 
deep  interest  in  his  welfare.  The  fisherman  knows  that 
lie  will  have  work  enough  for  every  day,  and  an  early  start- 
to  lu^in  with.  The  farmer  comes  in  with  his  reports,  and 
then  there  is  the  round  among  tho  cattle,  of  which  he  is  a 
perfect  judge,  and  an  examination  of  the  fields  and  the 
progress  j»f  the  crop,  for  ho  is  a  skilful  farmer,  hiving  not 
only  tho  sight  of  com  fields  and  the  odor  of  new-mown  grass, 
but  the,  details  of  planting  and  manuring,  and  all  the  pro 
cesses  of  agriculture.  lie  first  taught  the  Marshtield  farmers 


' 

. 


I 

i 


• 


" 


•  . 


\ 


I 


•  '  • 


- 


.  •  '  . 

Pi 

• 


WEBSTER.  387 

the  value  of  kelp  and  sea-weed,  and  some  of  his  neighbors 
say  that  they  could  well  afford  to  give  him  five  tons  of  hay 
u  year  lor  the  lesson.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  a  great  man 
in  such  a  spot  —  with  the  scenes  he  loves  best  around  him, 
and  friends  who  know  his  worth.  It  is  pleasant  to  think 
that  the  wearied  mind  can  still  i|nd  refreshment  in  the  aim- 
pie  and  genial  pursuit*  of  rural  life,  and  that  the  cares  and 
excitements  of  the  great  scenes  in  which  so  large  a  portion 
of  his  career  has  been  passed,  havo  hot  with  him,  as  they 
have  with  so  many  others,  destroyed  the  relish  for  the  culm 
•an*l  sweet  companionship  of  nature  and  of  books.  Long 
may  he  live  to  enjoy  it. 


Scarcely  is  the  wish  uttered  ere  Death  makea  its  fulfil 
ment  impossible.  On  Sunday,  the  23d  of  October,  1852,  the 
electric  nervos  of  the  land  thrilled  to  their  utmost  extremity 
with  the  shock  of  the  death  of  Daniel  Webster.  He  died 
on  the  morning  of  that  day,  a  pathetic  grandeur  marking 
his  last  moments,  not  inconsonant  with  his  character  and 
career.  Henceforth  the  pleasant  home  which  we  have  been 
describing;  is  no  lunger  the  residence  of  Genius,  but  the 
phrinu  of  a  national  reverence  and  admiration,  Aud  the 
future  pilgrims  from  Maine  to  Mexico,  wandering,  thought 
ful,  through  the  chambers  and  over  the  grounds  of  Mai>li- 
lield,  will,  by  the  strength  and  permanence  of  the  charm 
that  attracts  thorn,  attest  the  truth  of  Webster's  self-uttered 
epitaph  — "I  still  livo." 


Jolm  DeniUton  $enneij. 


|obn 


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m  •    ••« 

. 
. 


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.    ; 


KENNEDY. 


TIl£  popular  idea  of  an  author's  home  is  a  room  in  a 
garret,  furnished  with  a  hungry-looking  wife,  a  baby  in 
a  cradle,  a  dun  at  the  door,  and  the  author  writing,  at  a 
broken-logged  table,  an  epic  poem,  or  an  essay  on  gok} 
mines.  But  this,  like  many  other  of  our  popular  ideas, 
is  an  importation  from  Grub-street;  which  happens. to  be 
almost  the  only  "institution"  that  wo  have 'not  endeavor 
ed  to  copy  from  our  English  ancestors.  Grub-street,  hap- 
l*ly,  is  only  a  tradition  among  American  authors,  who,  like 
all  other  Americans,  have  the  faculty  of  earning  their  own 
living,  and,  when  they  fail  to  do  it  by  authorship,  are  in»t 
too  dull  to  accomplish  it  in  eonie  other  way.  The  .present 
volume  will  bo  likely  to  dispel  the  traditionary  idea  of  an 
author's  home,  or  at  least  of  the  home  of  au  American 
author.  It  is  not  a  great  many  years  ago  since  Sydney 
Smith  made  that  impudent  inquiry  in  the  Edinburgh  Uc- 
view,  which  so  lacerated  our  national  pride,  "Who  reads 
-.  an  American  book?"  and  here  we  present  our  countrymen, 


KENNEDY. 


THE  popular  idea  of  an  author's  homo  is  a  room*  in  a 
garret,  furnished  with  a  hungry-looking  wife,  a  baby  in 
a  cradle,  a  dun  at  the  door,  and  the  author  writing,  at  a 
broken-legged'  table,  an  epic  poem,  or  an  essay  on  gold 
mines.  But  this,  like  many  other  of  our  popular  -ideas, 
is  an  importation  from  Grub-street ;  which  happens  tQ  .be 
almost  the  only  "  institution  "  that  we  have  not  endeavor 
ed  to  copy  from  our  English  ancestors.  Grub-street,  hap 
pily,  is  only  a  tradition  among  American  authors,  .who,  like 
all  other  Americans,  have  tke  faculty  of  earning  their  own  ' 
living,  and,  when  they  fail  to  do  it  by  authorship,  are  not 
too  dull  to  accomplish  it  in  some  other  way.  The  present 
volume  will  be  likely  to  dispel  the  traditionary  idea  of  an 
author's  home,  or  at  least  of  the  home  of  an  American 
author.  It  is  not  a  great  many  years  ago  since  Sydney  * 
Smith  made  that  impudent  inquiry  in  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
.  view,  which  so  lacerated  our  national  pride,  "Who  reads 
an  American  book  ? "  and  here  we  present  our  countrymen, 


342  HOICKS    OP    AMERICAN    AUTHOUS. 

and  the  rest  of  the  reading  world,  with  a  volume  made  up 
exclusively  of  descriptions  of  the  homes  of  American  au 
thors,  and  have  materials  in  reserve  for  two  more  volumes 
of  equal  bulk  on  the  same  subject.  The  author  of  Horse 
Shoe  Robinson  is  a  good  type  of  an  American  author. 
Seeing-  that  authorship  did  not  hold  out  that  prospect  of 
independence,  in  pecuniary  matters,  which  every  American 
regards  as  essential  to  personal  integrity  and  dignity  of 
character,  like  the  author  of  "Waverley,  ho  first  devoted 
himself  to  the  great  business  of  securing  a  sufficient  income 
by  the  exercise  of  his  talents  in  an  honorable  profession, 
before  ho  ventured  on  the  indulgence  of  his  literary  incli 
nations  }  hud  we  arc  not  sure  that  the  world  has  not 
gaiiK'd  by,  this  commendable  prudence,  as  well  aa  the  au 
thor.  Ilia  works  have  not  been  forced  from  him  by  the 
exactions  of  publishers,  nor  the  pressing  necessities  of  an 
improvident  life.  But  thuy  have  been  written  from  a  ful 
ness  of  a  well-disc  iptiiMnl  imagination,  and  a  well-matured 
and  thoroughly  educated  mind.  Therefore  tno  first  pro 
duction  of  Mr.  Kennedy  made  its  mark.  It  was  a  fin- 
iahetl  and  artistic  Work,  betraying  neither  haste,  incom 
pleteness,  nor  inexperience  ;  and  as  the  author  had  not 
neglected  his  opportunities,  ho  had  no  reason  to  complain 
of  neglect  when  he  appeared  before  the  public  as  a  candi 
date  for  their  attention.  It  would  be  well  for  our  national 
literature  if  our  young  authors  were  to. profit  by  the  -manly 
example  of  the  author  of  Swallow  Barn  and  Horse  Shoo 
Robinson,  who  commenced  his  career  as  an  author  at  an 
age  when  many  of  our  writers  have  exhausted  themselves 
and  become  effete.  Scott  was  forty  years  of  ago  when 


KENNEDY.  813 

Wavorly  was  published,  and  the  author  of  Swallow  Bam 
was  but  three  years  younger  when  he  made  his  iirst  essay 
itt  the  same  flold  of  literary  labor. 

The  "home"  of  Mr.  Kennedy,  which  our  engraving  gives 
a  view  of,  is  a  pleasant  but  unpretending  country  huiise, 
built  directly  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Patapscot  river,  about 
one  mile  below  Ellicott's  Mills,  with  a  bridge  leading  across 
the  river  to  the  Baltimore  and  Ohio  Railroad.  It  is  encom 
passed  with  lofty  and  romantic  hills,  being  at  the  foot  of  the 
noted  highlands  in  Maryland  known  as  the  Elk  Ridge*  The 
house  is  more  extensive  than  the  view  of  it  indicates;  the 
older  part  of  it  is  of  frame,  but  the  other  part  is  built"  of 
..granite.  It  has  been  in  the  possession  of  the  father-iu-law 
of  Mr.  Kennedy  more  than  thirty  years,  and  he  has  himself 
occupied  it  as  a  summer  residence  during  the  past  twenty 
years;  and  here  the  greater  part  of  his  published  works 
were  written. 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  born  in  the  city  of  Baltimore  on  the 
25th  'of  October,  1795  ;  he  was  the  oldest  of  four  brothers, 
his  father  being  at  the  time  of  his  birth  a  prosperous  mer 
chant  in  that  city,  and  his  mother  of  the  Pendleton  family 
of  Virginia.  Ho  was  educated  at  the  Baltimore  University, 
and  graduated  at  that  institution  in  1812,  and  bore  arms' in 
the  defence  of  his  country  at  Bladensburgh  and  North' Point, 
when  Maryland  was  invaded  by  the  British  troojva  under 
General  lloss.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  his  native 
city  iu  the  year  181 C,  and  practised  law  with  groat  success 
until  he  was  elected  a  representative  to  Congress  from  Bal 
timore.  Mr.  Kennedy  has  always  been  a  politician,  since  he 
entered  upon  the  active  scenes  of  life,  and  has  achieved  a 


344  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

triple  reputation  ao  a  lawyer,  an  author,  and  a  statesman. 
Although  nearly  all  our  authors  have  been  lawyers,  and  nil 
our  lawyers  politicians,  there  is  no  other  instance  that  wo 
can  recall  to  mind,  in < which  eminence  Iui8  been  attained  in 
all  three  callings,  by  the  same  individual. 

l"ho  first  literary  adventure  of  the  aiftltor  of  Swallow 
Barn  was  the  Ked  Book*  a  satirical  publication',  which  ho 
produced  -in  partnership  with  his  friend  Peter  Hoil'man 
Cruse,  in  imitation  of  the  literary  partnership  of  Irving 
and  Paulding,  in  the  production  of  Salmagundi.  Irving 
appears  to  have  been  the  model  on  which  Mr.  Kennedy 
formed  himself  in  his  first  literary  attempts ;  for  his  next 
work,  Swallow  Barn,  which  was  published  in  1832,  wiU  man 
ifestly  written  with  Bracebridge  Hall  in  its  author's  memory. 

The  vigorous  genius  of  Mr.  Kennedy  needed  no  model 
fur  his  imitation;  Swallow  Barn  was,  in  all  its  essentials,  as 
original  a  production  as  Bracebridge  Hall,  and  the  author 
had  the  advantage  of  depicting  scenes  and  characters  that 
were  then  entirely  new  in  the  province  of  art.  lie  is  en 
titled  to  the  merit  of  a  discoverer,  and  the  new  field  which 
he  opened  to  literary  adventurers  has  since  been  most  assid 
uously  cultivated.  But  Swallow  Barri  still  remains  the  best 
w^rk  of  its  kind  that  has  emanated  from  an  American  pen. 
Its  pictures  of  plantation  life  in  Virginia,  not  having  been 
written  for  sectional  or  partisan  purposes,  are  the  most 
amusing  and  reliable  that  have  been  presented  to  us. 
They  impress  the  northern  reader  with  a  feeling  of  their 
faithfulness,  and  have  nothing  of  the  extravagancies  and 
distortions  which  other  writers  on  the  same  ground  appear 
to  have  found  it  impossible  to  avoid.  Two  years  after  the 


KENNEDY.  S& 

publication  of  Swallow  Barn,  hia  great  romance  of  Horse 
Sh..o  Robinson  appeared,  and  in  this  stirring  tale  of  Revo 
lutionary  adventures  in  the  South,  ho  asserted  his  own  ori 
ginality  of  composition,  and  wrote  without  any  otlier  luodel 
than  that  of  Nature.  Hob  of  the  Bowl,  a  Legend  of  St. 
Inigou-X  appeared  in  1838 ;  and  although  the  author  aj>- 
pears  to  have  bestowed  more  care  upon  it  than  upon  either 
of  his  other  productions,  it  was  not  so  successful,  as  his  two 
previous  works.  In  1840  ho  published,  anonymously,  a 
political  satire,  called  the  Annals  of  Quodlibet,  which  con 
tained  no  small  amount  of  wit  and  trenchant  humor ;  hut 
the  most  pungent  satire  is  tame  and  spiritless  in  a  country 
like  ours,  where  the  freedom,  or  licentiousness  of  the  press 
permits  the  use  of  undisguised  abuse  in  political  warfare. 
And  the  Annals  of  Quodlibet  did  not  make  that  kind  of 
impression  upon  the  public  mind  that  a  work  of  less  merit 
would  have  done,  if  piquancy  had  been  given  to  thQ  perusal 
of  it  by  the  feeling  which  the  peril  of  the  author  imparts  to 
satirical  publications  in  other  countries.  The  satire,  too, 
was  local,  and  not  likely  to  bo  understood  in  another  lati 
tude  than  that  in  which  it  was  produced. 

Li  1840  was  published  Mr.  Kennedy's  Life  of  AVirt,  in 
'two  volumes,  a  work  which  will  add  to  the  reputation  of 
both  the  author  and  his  subject.  This  was  the  last  of  his 
published  productions. 

The  political  life  of  Mr.  Kennedy  commenced  at  a  very 
early  age.  He  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Maryland 
House  of  Delegates,  to  represent  his  native  city  in  the 
year  1820,  and  in  the  two  succeeding  years.  lie  was 
three  times  elected  a  member  of  Congress,  and  always 


#4$  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    A  U  Til  oil's. 

distinguished  himself  by  his  eloquent,  manly  and  consist 
ent  advocacy  of  the  leading  measures  of  Hie  Whigs,  of 
which,  party  he  has  always  been  a  devoted  member.  In 
1S44  lie  published  a  defence  of  the  "\Vhigs,  a  political 
essay  displaying  great  talent,  vigor  of  reasoning,  and  a 
perfect  mastery  of  his  subject. 

On  tl«5  resignation  of  the  post  of  Secretary  of  the  Navy 
by  Mr,  Graham, 'in  consequence  of  his  nomination  to  the 
Vice-Presidency  by  the  Whigs,  Mr.  tfillmore  offered  the 
vacant  place  to  Mr.  Kennedy,  which  ho  ndw  fills  to  the 
great  satisfaction  of  his  parly  and  the  people.  It  is  a 
remarkable  circumstance,  that  the  only  literary  men  who 
have  had  a  scat  in  the  Cabinet — Bancroft,  Paulding  and 
Kennedy,  should  have  all  three  been  called  to  the  head 
ol  the  same  department. 


'-'  v  *  :! 

-x       1       J    -.<»     \ 

>{   I   .1 

S>   *  t 

1    v'v    '*  '^ 

•> §N^  ! 

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Cf'jA 


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.)     \J  j'Jj 

J    X  .-*  p x 

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v,  ;  *  ""- 

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v. 


7 


'.enri<'.,iv  :      Pret'at^i*  '  1  P   Horse-  ;>hoe  hobmson*  revised    ^    16bt 


.    .    » 


Israts 


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*$'*       v     -.f  -    ,  . 
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LOWELL 


pAMjBIUDGE  is  ono  of  the  very  few  towns  in  New  Eug- 
VJ  land  tliot  is  worth  visiting  for  the  sake  of  its  old  house*, 
It  has  its  full  share  of  turretod  and  beduined  cottages,  of 
"pic-crust  battlements"  and  Athenian  temples;  but  iu 
chief  glory,  besides  its  elms,  and  "muses'  factories,"  are 
the  fine  old  wooden  mansions,  which  Bcem  to  be  indige 
nous  to  the  soil  on  which  they  stand,  like  the  stately  tfcea 
that  surround  them.  These  well  preserved  relics  of -our 
ante-revolutionary  splendor  are  not  calculated  to  make  us 
feel  proud  of  our  advancement  in  architectural  taste,  since 
we  achieved  our  independence ;  and  wo  cannot  help  thinking 
that  men  who  are  fond  of  building  make-believe  baronial 
castles,  never  could  have  had  the  spirit  to  dream  of  us*erl- 
ing  their  independence  of  the  old  world.  People  who  are 
afraid  to  trust  their  own  invention  in  so  simple  a  thing  as 
house-building,  could  never  have  trusted  themselves  in  the 
more  important  business  of  government-making.  Yet  some 
of  these  fine  old  houses,  that  have  so  manly  and  independ- 


300  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

ent  a  look,  wore  built  by  stanch,  conservative  tories,  who 
It-u rod  republicanism,  and  had  no  faith  ut  all  in  the  possi 
bility  of  a  state  without  a  kiiig. 

The  fctately  old  mansion  in  which  the  poet  Lowell 
was  bom,  one  of  the  Unest  in  the-  neighborhood  of  1 W 
t<'ti,.Wtt3  built  by  Thomas  Oliver^  the  last  royal  liculcnant- 
governor  of  the  province  of  Massachusetts,  who  remained 
true  to  his  allegiance,  and  after  the  l)eclaratiou  of  Indepcn- 
iknce  ve^nnved ,  to  England,  where  he  died.  In  Eliot's  JJio- 
gfaphical  Dictionary  of  tko  fir.st  settlers  in  New  England,  is 
the  following  brief ' account  of  this  sturdy  royalist:— 

"Tlioinas  flliver,  the  la>t  lieutenant  governor  under  the 
crown.  He  was  a.  man  bf  letters,:  and  possessed  of  inueh 
good  nature  and  good  breeding;  ho  was  allahle,  courteous,  a 
(Miiuplete  gentleman  in  hit*  manners,,  and  the  delight  of  his 
acquaintance,  He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in 
1753.  lie  built  an  elegant  mansion  in  Can^bridge,  and  en 
joyed  u  plentiful  fortune.  AVheii  he  left  America  it  was 
wi-Ui  extreme  regret.  He  lived  in  the  shades  of  retirement 
while  in  Europe,  and  very  lately  (1801.))  his  death  was  an 
nounced  in  the  public  papers." 

The  character  of  the  man  might  easily  have  been  told 
from  examining  his  houKC  ;  it  bears  the  marks  of  a  generous 
and  amiable  nature,  as  unerringly  as  such  qualities. are  de 
noted  by  the  shape  of  the  head.  Mean  men  do  not  build 
themselves  such  habitations.  Much  good  nature  is  plainly 
traceable  in  its  line  large  rooms,  and  its  capacious  chimneys, 
which  might  well  be  called 

"11*0  \s  ind-j)ijH'jj  of  good  hcHjutulitie." 


LGWKLL.  851 

It  has  a  broad  staircase  with  easy  landings,  and  a  hall  wide 
enough  fur  a  traditionary  duel  to  have  been  fought  in  it, 
.when,  like  many  of  the  neighboring  mansions,  it  was  on  it? 
[tied  by  revolutionary  Boldiers.  Washington,  too,  was  once 
entertained  under  its  roof,  and  after  the  war  it  became 
the  property  of  Klbridge  (terry,  one  of  the  RtgncTB  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence;,  who  lived  in  it  whilu  he  was 
Vive- 1  'resident  of  the  United  States.  At  his  death  it  was 
purchased  of  the  widow  t»f  (Jerry -by  its  present  owfier,  Uie 
liev.  Charles  Lowell,  father  of  the  1'oer,  by.  whom-  it  was' 
beautiiied  and  improved,  Dr.  Lowell  planted  the  greater 
part  -of  the  noble  trees  \\hieh  now  Kiirroimd  it,  conspicuous 
among  them  being  the  Kiiperb  elms  froni  \vhie,h  it  derives 
its  name.  The  grounds  of  Klmwood  are  about  thirteen  acres 
in  extent,  and,  adjoin  on  one  hide  the  cemetery  of  Mount 
Auburn,  where  two  of  the  Poet's  children,  Ulanche  and 
Kose,  are  buried.  It  wan  on  the  grave  of  his  first-born 
that  the  beautiful  poem,  full  of  gushing  tenderness^  called 
"The  First  Snow-fall,"  was  written;  which  we  will  copy 
here,  because  it  lias  not  been  included  in  either  of  the 
editions  of  his  collected  poems. 


The  .-iin w  Imd  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

Ami  hu.-ily  ull  tho  uiglit 
H.i-1  IM  , n  In  iij.iii^  tu-ld  und  highway 

With  u  btlencti  «lf«-|i  and  white. 

'Kvery  i»inc  and  fir  and  hemlock 

Wore  onuiue  to«>  dear  for  an  earl, 

Aiid  the  jmon-st  t\vi^  ou  the  elm-tree 

Waa  ridged  inch-deep  with  i>earl. 


852  UOMKt*    O'F    AMK1UCAN    A  U  Til  O  US. 

k 

"From  fthedi,  uew-roofedSvith  Currara, 

fame  ehantich'cr'd  m  mllcd  crow, 
Tito  .-i  ill  rniln  weit)  ^>u,  n<  .1  to  »wanVduwn,  — 

AUil    rllll     lluUtl.  d    (toWll    Uir   MUOW. 

"I  flood  ami  \\iitvlud   l»y  thu  wiiul.iw 

Til*  IK.'I  ..  1,   -  work  of  1  1n-    U  , 
Au<l  tlui  HiuMcii  tliirrii'ii  «»f  MIOW 
lJk«!  bi'uwn  K-rtve*  Whirling  l>y. 


*'  I  thought  of  u  inoiiiiii  in  i»woe(  Auhuru 

Wh.-iv  u  litifo  luaM-lniH'  M.M.,1, 
Howf  (ho  link'  •*  wii«t  J'«'lijiu^  it  m  nUy^ 
A*  Uitl  I'ultiitd  tho  In^n-si  in  the  wooa, 


"Up  PJ...L.  our  own  Mu'n  Malx-l, 

Sa^yiii^,  'lullut,  who  nmki-a  it  snow  I* 
An«l  I  toM  oHIu-  ^ood  Allfuthor 
Who  euros  for  us  all  In-low. 

41  Again  I  looked  ut  I  ho  biiowfall, 

And  thought  of  th«t  Ifuden  eky 
lliat  urchal  «»\ir  uur  th-^t  gn-at  w»rrow, 
\Vlu-n  that  mound  \viw  htapi.'d  bo  higli. 

**  I  rt'iiU'inliwi-d  tho  gradual  {laticiico 

That  fi-ll  frtnu  that  cloud  li 
Flako  hy  llako,  hfuling  and  hiding 
The  hi-ur  of  that  »l*-i  j»-etablu'd 


**Aiul  uguin  t«»  the  rhild  I 

•The  *nmv  that  hushoth  all, 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall  !  ' 

"Thin,  with  vyv*  tliut'aaw  not,  I  kissed  her, 

And  .-In-,  ki.-.-«iiiir  l>ack,  could  n«»t  know 
That  )ni/  ki.-vj  WU.H  given  to  her  oUtor 
Folded  i'liK>o  under  diHipeniug  snow.** 


LOWELL. 

Some  of  Lowell's  finest  poems  huvo  trees  for  their  theme's, 
and  lie  appears  to  entertaiu  a  strong  affection  fur  the  leafy 
patriarchs  beneath  who^e  branches  he  had  played  iu  his 
1)0}- hood.  Jn  one  of  the  many  poem*  which 'have  over 
flowed  from  his  prodigal  genius  into  the  columns  of  obsfmv 
monthly  and  weekly  periodicals,  and  have  not  yet  bi?en pub 
lished  in  a  volume,  is  one  called  "A  Day  in  June,"  in  winch 
occurs  an  exquisitely  touching  apostrophe  to  the  'Mull  elm" 
that  forms  BO  conspicuous  tin  object  in  the  view  of  Elm  wood 
drawn  by  our  artist. 

"Simp,  chord  of  manhood1!  t<  it.«« T  atruiul 

To-day  I  will  h«:  u  boy  vguiii; 

Tho  iniml'd  pur.-uiiiL,'  tleiiu-nt, 

l.iLu  a  bow  Blackened  ami  unl»<  hi, 

lu  Hotui)  dark  rorixT  t»hall  1><-  Iriuit ; 

The  robin  piii'j"*,  nt»  of  o)<),  froiu  the  limb, 

Tin  rat -bird  omwo  iu  tho  liluc  liu«h ; 

Through  the  dim  urhor,  hiin^-lf  more  dim, 

sih'iitly  lsoj»s  the  liermit-Uinwh, 

The  witlu-rcd  K-avirn  ko*-|i  dumb  for  lain; 

Tiio  iiTr.vA'iviit  bnocanecring  b«.-«> 

lluth  btoriiu-d  and  rill.-d  the  nuim. TV 

«f  the  lily,  und  swittercd  the  snored  lliM>r 

With  hasto-dropt  gold  from  ohrino  to  door; 

Thi-iv,  as*  of  yore, 

The  rich  milk-tifagiug  butter-cup^ 

ltd  tiny  )M»lUlu'(l  urn  h(»M<*  uj>, 

1'ill.  d  \vilh  riiKi  Kiinuiu-r  to  the  flJgo, 

T!M-  nun  in  his  own  "wine  to  pledge; 

And  one  /«i//  elm,  thit  hundredth  y<ar 

J)cxje  of  our  leafy  VtHice  hrn, 
.    •  Who  with  (in  annual  ring  *l»tk  ufil 

'J7tf  blue  Adriatic  oit'r  hta<J, 
23 


HOMES  OF  AMERICAN  AUfHOKS 

Shadow*  with  hi*  palatial  matt 
The  dctp  canal*  of  flowing  yratg, 
Where  glow  the  dandelions 
For  thadowt  of  Italian  ttara. 


"  0,  unertranged  birds  and 
O,  fuco  of  nature  al  way  a  true  1 
O,  ncvfTHHtymjKithizing  tm*t 
O,  uevcr-rcjecting  roof  of  blue, 
Whoso  rush  ditihcriaon  never  full* 
On  ua  unthinking  prodigalu, 

Vet  \\  In.  r.,U\  |.-t<  ,  t  all  ..,ir  ill, 

S>  (^rftinl  and  unappeirsublu  ! 
Mctiiiuka  in);  li«  art  froiu  t-arh  of  lht'*o, 
I'ltirLs  jiHi't  of  .'It i hi lm.nl  back 
l.<iii'_p  (In  ir  iinpruuncd,  as  the 
l>oth  cvei-jr.  hiddon  i»d  »r  wi/«)  • 
Of  wood  and  Nsiii«T,  tiill  and  j-luin  ; 
And  I  will  utoro  tho  bt-cret  rit»-, 
P\»r  days  Ic.s6  gciic-rously  bright, 
AslVreus  heard.-,  from  noonti 
The  fiery  foixva  to  bloom  ut  night. 


IIo  has  fitiidied  in  the  life-school  of  poetry,  and  all  the 
l»ici tire's  which  ho  has  \vovou  into  the  texture  of  his  verse 
have  boon  drawn  directly  from  nature.  His  descriptions  of 
scenery  are  full  of  local  coloring)  and,  in  his  k*  .Indian-Sum 
mer  Reverie,"  there  are  so  many  accurate  and  vivid  pictures 
of  Klmwood  and  its  neighborhood,  of  the  u  silver  Charles,'' 
the  meadows,  the  trees,  the  distant  hills,  the  colleges,  the 
l*  glimmering  farms,"  and  ".Coptic  tombs,"  that  we  need 
hurdly  do  morw  than  transfer  them  to  our  pages  to  give  a 
vivid  picture  of  his  homo  and  its  associations. 


LOWELL.  355 

"There  gleama  my  native  village,  dear  to  me, 
Though  higher  change's  wave*  each  day  are  seen, 

Whelming  fields  famed  in  boyhood'*  history, 
Sanding  with  houses  the  diminished  green  ; 

There,  in  red  brick,  which  softening  time  detiea, 

SUuid  square  and  stiiT  tlie  Muse*'  factories  ;-— 
Huw  with  my  life  knit  up  in  every  well-known  scene  I 

"  Beyond  that  hillock's  houoe-bespotted  swell, 
Where  (iothic  clmp«-ls  hoibto  the  horse  and  chaise, 

Win-re  Ojiiiet  cits  in  Grecian  teuijtlod  dwell, 
Where  (j)jitio  toiul«j  re»«uind  with  prayer  And  praise, 
Where  dust  and  mud  the  e<i\ial  year  divide, 
Tlu-re  gontlo  Alston  lived,  and  wrought,  and  died, 
Transfiguring  ntrcet  and  rlx-p  with  hid  illumined  gaze. 


n  viJi  tantti)nt—*l  have  seen 

lli;t  aa  a  l»>y,  w  ho  look»  alike  on  all, 
That  mi*ty  hair,  that  fmo  Undiuo-liko  mien, 

Tremulom  aa  down  to  feeling'^  faintest  call  ;  — 
Ah,  dear  old  homestead  I  count  it  to  thy  fame 
That  hither  many  timed  the  painter  came—  - 

One  elm  yet  beaw  hi*  name,  a  feathery  tree  and  tell. 


"Dear  native  town!  whoso  choking  elms  each  year 

With  eddying  du»t  before  their  time  turn  gray, 
Pining  for  rain,  —  to  me  thy  dust  i.t  dear ; 

Jt  glorifies  tho  eve  of  Bummer  day, 

And  when  the  wc^U-ring  sun  half-sunken  burns 
The  mote-thick  air  to  deepest  orange  turns, 

The  westward  horseman  rides  through  cloud*  of  gold  away 

"  So  palpable,  I've  Been  those  unshorn  few, 
The  six  old  willowa  at  tho  causeway's  end, 

Such  trees  Paul  Potter  never  dreamed  nor  drew, 
Througli  this  dry  mist  their  checkering  bhadow*  aen J, 


$50  HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    A  U  Til  OK  8. 

Btri|>cd,  hero  and  there,  with  many  a  long-drawn  thread, 

"\Vhrru  btreauit  d  through  leufy  rhinekn  tho  trembling  red, 

Puut  which,  in  one  bright  trail,  the  hang-bird's  Jhirdtea  blend." 

In  this  brilliant  descriptive  poem  ho  exhibits  his  native 
town  iu  a  series  of  changing  pictures  that  'bring  tho  scenes 
perfectly  before  us  under  all  the  varying  phases  of  tho  year. 
What  landscape  painter  has  given  us  h.uch  pictures  as  these 
of  the  approaches  of  a  New  England  winter  4 


*'  Or  come  wheii  riiniaot  gives  its  freshened  zest, 

Lean  oYr  the  bridge  and  lot  the  ruddy  thrill, 

.     White  tlu>  shorn  nun  uwolls  down  tho  ha/y  wc.st, 

GloW  «>i>|u>aitc;  —  the  inarHhts  drink  their  nil 
And  bwouu  with  purple  v«'in.s,  tlu-n  blouly  fade 
Through  j'iitk  to  broWu,  u^  custwurd  i\iu\  r^  the  bhudc, 

Lc-ngtluning  with  btnilthy  crt'«-|>,  i>t'  Sttnt-nd'o  darkening  hill. 

"Lnt«T,  uihl  .y»  1  or*'  winter  w.  holly  rhut», 
Kro  thnuigh  the  tir^t  di-y-hnow  the  imnner  grate^ 

And  the  !<>ath  out  -\\luvl  H-ivani^  iu  hlij)|>ery  rutu, 
While  firim-r  iee  the  t-ager  b«>y  avvaitr, 

Trying  each  buckle  and  strnj>  b<si<l<'  the  Jire, 

And  until  Ind-tuiic  playt.tcjth  hi*  dt'Jtire, 

time*  i/nttiiij  on  ami  vf  hi*  n$io-bougkt  tkatet;-— 


,  v  very  nu  >rn,  the  river'h  banks  whine  bright 
With  Biuooth  plati'  nrhitir,  trfachernun  and  IVail,   . 

liy  tl»o  fixwt'b  clinking  haiunu'rn  forg»>tl  at  uiglrt, 
fliitmt  \\hii-h  tlur  huu'i'H  of  tho  wtui  jtro.vail, 

Cjivingji  pretty  fiublcru  of  the  du'V 

Whoa  gUiltier  utniri  in  hgld  .-li.nll  nu  It  nway, 
Aud  et>itt>M  .-hall  inn  ve  five-limbed,  loosed  from  v.ur'e  craniiping  mail.1 

lie  was  b'orn  at  Klmwood  on  the  liL'tl  of  February,  181D  — 


LOWELL.  357 

the  youngling  of  tlio  flock,  received  his  i'arly  edu-cation  in 
Cambridge,  and  in  1838  graduated  at  Harvard,  where  hit* 
father  and  grandfather  had  graduated  before  him. 

"Though  lightly  pj'ue<l  the  rihltoiu'd  ]>archm»  lib  three, 
Yet  fitlltylt&f  jui'at,  1  am  glft«l 
Ttijit  here  what  eolh-^iiig  wiu  miuo  I  juul,  — 
It  linked  another  tk,  tlonr  native  town,  with  tluv." 

Ixi>lAN-Sl'MSOJt    Ki  VkKIK. 

After  his  "colleging"  he  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to 
the  bar;  but  ho  had  opened  an  oiHce  in  Ha>t»'«n,  to  lure 
client?,  a  very  littlo  while,  when  ho  discovered  that  he  and 
the  legal  profession  were  not  designed  for  each  other.  There 
could  not  have  been  a  more  ungenial  and  unprofitable  pur^ 
suit  than  that  of  the  law  for  a  nature  so  trunk  and  genen»UA 
as  that  of  L(»wvirs;  and,  happily  lor  him,  ureerisity,  v.hich 
kiu»w»  no  law,  did  m>t  ci»mpel  him,  as  it  has  many  (»ther-,  to 
.-tick  t*.  the  law,  for  a  living,. against  his  inclination*,  So  h« 
Hbundoned  nil  thoughts  of  the  ermine,  and  of  figuring  in 
flu-q»kin  volumes,  if  he  had  ever  indulged  in  any  such 
fancies,  which  is  hardly  probable,  and,  turning  hid  back  on 
a  profession  which  is  iitly  typified  by  a  woman  with  a  ban 
dage  over  her  eyes,  he  returned  to  hi*  bouks  <in'd  trees  at 
Kim  wood,  determined  <»n  making  literature  his  relialice  for 
fame  and  fortune. 

His  iirst  start  in  literature,  as  a  iuifcinoss, -ended  disna- 

.  tn»u>ly.      In   company  with  his  friend   Kobcrt   Tarter,  he 

established    a    monthly    inagaximj    called    the    4*  J^ohct-r," 

which,  owing  to  the  failure  <»f  his  publishers,  did  not  last 

longer  than  tho  third  number;   but  it  wus  admirably 'AveH 


858  HOMES   OF    AM  Kill  CAN    A  U  TH  O  US. 

conducted,  and  made  a  decided  impression  on  the  literary 
public  by 'the  elevated  tone  of  its  criticisms,  and  the  superi 
ority  of  its  essays  to  the  ordinary  class  of  magazine  litera 
ture,  frocm  after  the  failure  of  the  Pioneer  he  was  married 
to  Affss  Maria  "White,  of  Wutertown,  a  huly  of  congenial 
Ui.it  es,  and  an  remarkable  for  her  womanly  graces  and  accom-'. 
plishmx'nts,  as  for  her  elevated  intellectual  qualities.  "The 
Morning  (Jlory,"  published  in  the  last  edition  of  his  poems, 
was  \yrittert  by  her.  They  have  resided  at  Klmwood  binee 
their  marriage,  with  the  exception  o.V.  year  and  a  half  spent 
iir  Italy. 

The  ancestors  of  Lowell  were  among  the  earliest  and 
most  eminent  of  the  netting  of  Kew  England)  and  there  are 
but  few  Americans  who  could  boast  of  a  more  honorable  or 
distinguished'  descent.  lie  was  named  after  his  father's  ma 
ternal  grandfather,  Judge  .James  Kussell,  of  Charlestown,  an 
eminent  person  in  the  colony  of  Massachusetts,  one  of  whose 
descendants,  Lechmere  Ivussell,  a  general  in  the  British 
army,  recently  died  at  hi»  seat  of  Ashtbrd  Hall  in  Shrop 
shire.  The  founder  of  the  Lowell  family  in  Massachusetts 
was  IVrcival  Lowell,  who  settled  in  the  town  of  ISewhury 
in  the  year  lo'.'W,  Tiro  Hon.  John  Lowell,  tjie  J\>efs  grantl- 
father,  was  one  of  the  most  eminent  lawyers  in  Massachu- 
hetU;  ho  was  a  representntivo  in  Congress,  and  being  a 
niemfKr  ot' the  convention  which  framed  the  i'nvt  CiUinliiu- 
iS^n  of  his  native  State,  he  introduced  the  provision  into  the 
Hill  of  Kights  which  ab»>li>hed  slavery  in  Massachusetts. 
The  father  of  Mr.  Lowell  is  a  distinguished  Congregational  1st 
clergyman,  who  has  been  pastor  of  the  "West  church  of  Bos 
ton  nearly  lifty  years,  and  is  the  author  of  several  works  of 


1,0  W  KLL.  369 

a  religion*  character;  lie  graduated  at  Harvard,  ami  was,  an 
intimate  friend  and  classmate  of  Washington  Alston.  lie 
a lu  rwards  went  to  Edinburgh,  whore  he  studied  divinity, 
and  matriculated  tit  the  university  there  at  the  tame,  time 
with  Sir  David  Urewster,  who  was  also  a  divinity  student. 
A  lew  years  ago,  when  Dr.  Lowell  was  in  Scotland  with  his 
\ut'e.  and  daughter,  he  paid  a  visit  to  Mclrt*e  Abbey,  and 
while  there,  lu-ard  a  man  tell  another  that  Sir  David  firewater 
would  be  with  him  directly,  lie  had  not  met  the  eminent 
philosopher  siuee,  they  Xvere  Students  together,  and  did  not 
Know  that  he  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  hia  old  friend  V 
hou?>o,  which  he  learned,  on  inquiry,  was  the,  fact.  Wl'en 
the  philosopher,  appeared,  Dr. 'Lowell  made  himself 
ami  foumL,  from  the  heartiness  of  the  embrace  he 
that  an  interval  ot- forty  years  had  not  diminished  the  attacflr 
ment  of  his  early  friend  and  companion.  .'>-. 

The  motlier  of  the  Poet  was  a  native  of  New  Hampshire, 
and  a  sister  of  the  late  Captain  Itobert  T.  Speiiec,  of  the  IT. 
S.  Navy.  She  was  a  woman  of  a  remarkable  mind,  arid  pos- 
isessed  in  an  eminent  degree  the  j»o\ver  of  acquiring  Inn- 
guages,  a  faculty  whieh  is  inherited  by  her  daugli|cr,  M\>. 
Putnam,  whoso  controversy  v.ilh  ,Mr.  P>owen?  ed.il or  oi*  tin? 
Norlh  American  Kevicw,  respecting  the  late  war  in  Jhin*. 
gary,  bn>nghfc  her  name  HO  prominently  before  the  public' 
that  tlu-ro  can  be  no  impropriety  in  alluding  to  .lie* •' hfav, 
Mrs.  Putnam  in  probably  one  of  the.  mo*!  rtinmrkjiblo  «»f  fe 
male  linguists,  and  there  have  been  but  Jew  scholars  who>v 
philological  learning  has  been  greater  than  hers.  She  »-;.u- 
ver.-es  n-adily  in  French,  Italian,  German^  Polish,  SweJi^h, 
and  Hungarian,  and  is  familiar  with  twenty  modem  dialect.-?, 


800  H  O  M  K  S   OF    A  M  E  It  I  C  A  N    A  U  T  U  O  It  S  . 

besides  the  Greek,  Latin,  Hebrew,  Persic,  and  Arabic.  -Mrs. 
I'miiani  mado  the  first  translation  into  Knglish  of  Frederica 
Hremcr'ti  novel  of  the  "  Neighbors,"  from  tlie  Swedish.  The 
translation  by  Mary  Howitt  was  made  irom  the.  Cierman. 

The  iHaternal  ancestors  of  Lowell  were  of  Danish  origin, 
and  emigrated  to  America  from  Kirk  wall,  in  the  OrkneyB. 
While  Dr.  Lowell  was  in  Scut  land  with  his  family,  they 
Went  to  the  Orkneys  to  visit  the  burial-place  of  his  wile's 
fopi- fathers,  and  while  there  i»he  met  a  cousin,  a  native  of 
England,  whom  she  had  never  before  seen,  who  had  been 
many  years  in  India,  and  on  his  return  to  his  native  land, 
had  g«>no,  like  her,  on  ;i  pious  pilgrimage  to  visit  the  graves 
of  his  ancestors. 

Among  all  the  authors  whose  homes  are  noticed  in  this 
volume,  Lowell  is  the  only  one  who  has  the  fortune  to  reside 
ih  tho  house  in  which  he  was  born.  It  is  a  happiness  which 
few  Americans  of  mature,  age  can  know.  Kut  Lowell  lias 
been  peculiarly  lwj>py  in  his  domestic  relations;  Nature  has 
endowed  him  with  a  vigorous  constitution  and  a  healthy  and 
happy  temperament  j  and,  but  for  the  loss  of  his  three  chil 
dren,  the  youngest  of  whom,  his  only  boy,  died  recently  in 
lio-me,  there  would  have  been  fewer  shadows  on  his  path 
than  hnre  fallen  to  the  lot  of  other  poets.  A  nature  like  bib 
.cau  make  its  own  sunshine,  ami  find  an  oasis  in  every  desert ; 
.yet  it  was  a  rare,  fortune  that  he  found  himself  in  such  a 
home  as  his  imagination  would  have  created  for  him,  if  ho 
had  been  cast  homeless  upon  the  world.  He  loves  to  throw 
a  purple  light  over  the  familiar  scene,  and  to.  invest  it  with  a 
supcrlluousness  of  grateful  gilding.  The  large  -hearted  love 
to  give,  whether  their  gifts  be  needed  or  not.  The  lovely 


LOWKLL.  361 

landscape  around  Khmvood  lookb  btill  lovelier  in  his  verso 
than  to  tho  unaided  vision  ;  and  the  "  clear  nmrahes  " 
through  which  the  briny.  Charles  ebhs  and  dows,  are  pleaa- 
anUT  for  being  seen  through  tho  golden  Luxe  jf  the  .Poet'* 
ailuction, 

"  Ik  low,  the  Charles  —  a  btripe  of  nether  bky> 

Now  hid  by  rounded  apple  tivos  bcl 
Wlioi«!  guj»d  the  mi.tplucvd  .-.i 

Now  flickering  golden  through  u  wootlhiml  twrccn. 
Tlit-ii  ^picuding  out,  ut  his  iit-xt  turn  U'yoiiJ,  v 
A  bilvc-r  eiri-lt-,  like  uu  inland  puiul—  •  .  • 

awurd  tiloiitly  through  innr-lu's  -purple  and  grt-cu. 

' 
"Dear  nia!>h«'»!  vuin  to  hiia  tho  gift  of  tighl          T 

\Vlu»  eaniutt  in  th»-ir  various  ineoin<-.-»  bhui'<*j 
VI-OIH  every  $t>a.«un  iha\vn,  of  >ltade  and  lighl, 

\\  I...  .-,  .-  in  dii-ia  l>ui   kvtl*  l»rowit  and  hare; 
Juu*h  ehange  of  .-luna  or  Bttli&hiuo  »<'aUera  frv« 
On  Un-iu  its  hirj.  >•*-•*  of  varitty, 

\viih  «li»,ii  r.i«an»  .-till  u.-ik->  h<  r 


"  in  spring  they  lit!  one  l»road  cxpunau  of  urei-H, 
O'er  >vhich  tho  light  uin<l-i  run  \vith  glinmu-ring  feet; 

Jlerv,  yellower  ttrijK-s  track  out  tho  eivrk  uy^-on, 
There,  darker  gro\\  th.s  o'er  hiddt  a  ditehed  inert  ; 

At-.d  j.urj'li  r  ,-taiiM  .-tn.\v  wh«  re  Jhe  1.1.  .--,,111-  crowd,. 
As  if  tin*  .-'.Ifiit  shadow  of  u  cloiiil 
Huug  there  hccahue«l,  with  tin-  next  breath  to  lh-.-l. 

"All  round,  upnii  the  river'n  »lipjM-ry  edge, 
NYitvhlivj:  to  dcep«-r  enlm  the  drowy  tid<-, 

Whi^jxT^  ami  h-ans  the  breezc-eotangluig  wdge  ; 
Through  emi-rald  glooum  the  lingering  \vateri»  olide, 
(h,  M'liictiiui-ii  \sa>eriiiLr,  throw  buck  tin*  »un, 
And  the  >tili   hank-  in  «ddi<^  null  and  run 
Of  dimpling  light,  and  with  the  ounvnt  p«  «  n»  t«*  glide." 


HOMES    OF    AMERICAN    AUTHOR. 

vElmwood  M  half  a  mile  or  so  beyond  the  colleges, 
and  Uvb  oif  from  the  main  street  ;  tlie  approach  to  it  is 
through  it  pleasant  j^reeii  lane,  or  at  leant  it  wius  green  when 
w%s  la^JStyW  it,  the  trees  having  beei*  freshly  wished  of  their 
**  biwvu  dnst'Vby  a  shower  which  was  Htill  falling  and  the 
muddy  division  of  the  yeiy  having  apparently  jiiht  com 
menced,  The  house  in  BO  Biir  rounded  \vith  trves  that  you 
eateh  htit  a  ^liiiiji.-^  of  it  until  you  btaml  oj>])(>>ite  to  it. 
Though.  Iniih  of  woodland,  nearly  a  ce.ntury  old,  it  hln»\\\s 
no  fci^ns  of  deeay.  It  m  most  njipi'opfiutely  furni^-lied,  and 
contains  many  interesting  relies,  old  family  pictures,  and 
KOJUO  «'li«iii'.c  works  of  art,  anioiig  \\hich  are  two  busts  l»y 
I'owt-rs  an-d  two  or  tlavo  portraits  by  Pap.e,  among  the 
line&t  lie,  lias  painted.  IVrhaps  it  may  be  gratifying  to  the 
reader  to  know  that  the  Poet's,  study,  in  which  nearly  all 
his  poems  have  been  written,  is  oil  the  third  tloor,  in  that 
liuf  coFner  of  the  house  on  which,  in  the  engraving,  the  light 
falls  HO  pleasantly. 

J.owell  is  generally  looked  upon  a*  a  Herious  poet,  and, 
indeed,  no  one  has  a  hotter  claim  to  be  HI  regarded,  for  beri- 
ousm^H  in  one  of  the  first  essentials  of  all  genuine  poetry. 
I  hit  seriousness  is  not  necessarily  HadnesH.  Much  of  his 
poetry  overflows  with  mirthfid  and  jocund  ieelings,  and,  in 
hjs  most  pungent  natire  there  is  a  constant  bubbling  up  of  u 
geni'al  ami  loving  nature;  the.  brilliant  thi^hes  of  his  wit  aw 
hoitene*!  by  an  evident  gentleness  of  motive,  lie  is  the  lir.^t 
of  our  poets  who  has  succeeded  in  making  our  harsh  ami 
um'oufh  ^'ankee  dialect  siiuservient  to  the  uses  of  poetry  ; 
ti;i-i  lie  has  done  with  entire  success  in  that  admirable  p 
of.humoio*UH  piitire,  <;The  l>iglo\\  hipiir-'  No  |  i- 


eer 


LOWELL.  363 

of  a  similar  character,  in  this  country,.,  were  ever  half  so  pop 
uluF  as  the  pithy  verses  of  I  Josea  Biglow,  in  hpite  of  -their 
being  BO  strongly  imbued  with  a  trenchant  spirit  of  opfiv-1- 
tion  to  the  popular  political  views  of  the  multitude;  and 
many  of-  them  have  been  widely  circulated  by  UKJ  IIC-WR- 
papers  without  any  intimation  being  given  of  tkcir  origin* 
Wo  were  sitting  one  evening  in  tho  bar-room  of  ft  hotel 
in  Washington,  just  alter  the  election  of  (jeneral  'Til) K>r; 
when  our  political  metropolis  was  tilled  with  olUce-M-ckers 
from  all  parts  of  the,  country;  the  room  was  crowded  with' 
rude  men  who  were  discussing  political  matters,  and  the 
la.st  thing  we  could  have  looked  for  was  a  harangiiw  on 
American  poetry.  A  roughly-dressed  down-eastery  <»r  at 
least  he  had  the  accent  and  look  of  one,  came  inh*  the 
bar-room,  and  addressing  himself  to  a  knot  of  men  \vh<r 
appeared  to  know  him,  exclaimed,  ""Who  sayd  there  aiv 
n«)  American  poets  f"  And  he  looked  around  upon  the 
company,  as  though  he  would  be  rather  pleased  than  \>\\t<- 
orwi.se  to  encounter  an  antagonist. 

Jiut  nobody  seemed  dispoM'd  to  venture  such  an  a»er- 
tinn  ;  the  novelty  of  the  question,  however,  attnu  trd  the 
attention  of  the  people  near  him,  which  was  pnihahlv  al! 
he  wanted.  ".Well,"  continued  the  speaker,  with  an  air  of 
dciiant  confidence,  "if  any  body  says  so,  I  am  prepared  to 
dispute  him.  I  have  found  an  American  poet.  1  d«in't 
Know  who  he  is,  nor  where  he  lives,  but  lu»  is  the. author  of 
tlu-e  lines,  and  he  is  a  ]>oet."  lie  tn<»k  a  uew>pu]>er  from 
hi-  (HM-krt  ;»ud  r»-;i«l  whul  l'jir-"ii  Wilhiir,  in  tht^  "Jlilow 


UOMKS    VV    AJklKKICAN    AUTHOHS. 
THE  COUJITIN'. 


Zekle  ere|»*  Up,  IpVUte 

An*  p«  «  k.  <1  in  thru  the  binder, 
An*  th<-»e  »ot  lluhly  all  alone, 
'ith  nu  nut  nigh  to  h<  n.l.-r. 

Agin*  i  ho  ehhubly  erookncrk*  hung, 

AU*  in  u'luoiiiM  V-m  runtf«l 
'ilui  ole  <^iiet;n'b  arm  Iht-t  ^rau'tho.r  Young 
back  fn>m  Coucunl 


"Th«  Maiinut  lo^a  ^hut  Darkles  out 
Towards  tho  poutieat,  l>l«-ss  lu-rl 

An*  l<  i  tl<'  fir*-'  ilaiKVtl  all  ulx>ut 

•*• 

The  diiny  <»n  the  tirfset'r. 

"  The  very  room,  c«»z  «lui  was  in, 

I^roki'il  wann  iVuiu  floor  to  coiliii', 
An*  the  luoknl  full  us  ro.sy  n^iu 
YJ.  th*  iijijiKs  bhe  wiw  jm-liu*. 

**8he  Ju'ord  a  foot  an*  ku«nvo«l  it,  tu, 

Anu^m'  oil  the  tjoraju-r,  — 
All  ways  to  once  IUT  fcclm*  llew 
Like  b]utrk8  in  l«urnt-u{)  paper. 

"Jl«-  kin*  o1  1'itriWl  on  the  mat, 
Soiut  ilouliUlo  o*  the  w  »-kle  ; 
Hi*  heart  kejV  |^oia*  pit  \  put, 
Hut  hern  went  pity  /ekli-." 

The  Yankee  ivuil  it  with  proper  emphasis  aiul  an  uncr 
tuouft  t\Van^,  ami  all  the  company  agreed  with  him,  that  it 
was  gumiihu  poetry  "and  no  mistake." 

And  so  poetry  makes  its  way  in  the  crowd.     Ji*  it  have 


L.  805 

the  true  spirit  in  it,  it  will  lind  a  sure  response  in  the  groat 
heart  of  the.  multitude,  who  are,  after  all,  the  only  judges  in 
art.  There  is  no  appeal  from  thcii  decisions.  And,  in  *he 
caso  of  Lowell,  the  decision  was  Unmistakably  in  his  tav^r. 
Ho  is  acknowledged  as  one  of  the  pods,  of  the  peoph». 
There  are  none  of  our  poets  whoso  short  pieces  ;.ve  tind 
more  frequently  in  the  corners  of  newspapers,  although 
they  are  -hut  rarely  attributed  to  their' author. 

Lou-ell's  prose  writings  are  as  remarkable  as  his  poetry ; 
the  copiousness  of  his  illustrations,  the  richness  of  his  ima 
gery,  the  easy  flow  of  his  sentences,  the  keenness  oi'  hi*  wit, 
and  the  force  and  clearness  of  his  reasoning,  give  to  hi-,  re 
views  and  e.-says  a  fascinating  charm  that  would  p!;i<e  him 
in  the  front  rank  of  our  prose  writers,  if  he  did  not  occupy  a 
>imilar  position  among  our  poets.  He  has  written  consider* 
ahly  lor  the  North  American  Kevicw,  and  some  other  peri 
odicals,  but  the  only  volume  of  pro>e  which  he  lias  published, 
he-ides  {he  "Bjglow  Papers,"  was  the  "Conversations  «»n 
the  Old  Dramatists,"  which  appeared  in  1810. 

Lowell  is  naturally  a  politician,  but  we  do  not  imagine 
he  will  ever  be  elected  a  member  of  Congress,  as  his  "rand- 

'   t^  f^ 

lather  was.  lie  is  «uch  a  politician  as  Milton  Was,  and  wil! 
never  narrow  himself  down  to  any  other  party  than  one 
which  includes  all  mankind  within  its  "lines;"  but  he, 
cannot  .-hut  his  eyes  to  the  great  movements  of  the  day, 
ami  dally  with  his  Muse,  when  he  can  invoke  her  aid  in 
the  can-e  of  the.  opprcs.-cd  and  fullering.  He  ha-*  to  con- 
lend  with  the  disadvantages  of  a  reputation  for  alM.ilitjon- 
iain,  which  is  as  unfavorable  to  the  prospects  of  a  •]*•«  t  as 
of  a  politician  ;  but  his  abolitionism  is  of  a  very  different 


306 


HOMES    OF    AM  EH  1C  AN    AUTHOHS. 


type  .from  that  which  has  -made  HO  great  u  commotion 
among  us.  during  tho  last,  ton  or  fifteen  years.  Notwith 
standing  the  unpopular  imputation  which  nvts  upon'  his 
name,  it  does  not  appear'  to  have  made  him  enemies  in  the 
South.  Home  of  his  warmest  and  must  attached  friends  are 
residents  of  slave  States  and  an;  slave-holder** ;  and  one  of 
the  heartiest  and  most  appreciative  criticisms  on  his  writ 
ing*  that  have  appeared  in  this  country  was  published  in  a 
Southern  journal,  a  paper  which  'can  hardly  he  Mispcctcd 
of  giving  aid  and  encouragement  to  an  enemy  of  the  South. 


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Homes  of  American        H6 
authors. 


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